#Quantum Code Review

[barnacles34]

Lost in Analysis (Winter x Male OC)

5k words, smut, fluff, happiness, data

Winter x Male OC

The thing about Junho Kim's[1] weekly debriefs with Minjeong Kim was that they followed a precise algorithm, an almost liturgical routine that both participants had wordlessly agreed upon circa Winter's third month of employment (viz. April 2024). The format went as follows: Winter would arrive at exactly 18:30 on Friday bearing a leather-bound portfolio containing the week's logistics reports, margin analyses, and projected Q3/Q4 modeling scenarios. Junho would pretend to study these for exactly twelve minutes while Winter sat in the ergonomic chair across his desk, her accent becoming pronounced in direct proportion to her anxiety level[2].

What happened on this particular Friday deviated from the algorithm in ways that would later prove significant, starting with Winter's arrival at 18:27[3].

"The Busan account numbers are off," Junho said, his photographic memory already detecting a 0.03% discrepancy in the third-quarter projections. The words emerged with the mechanical precision of someone who had learned human speech through technical manuals rather than conversation. "This is—" he paused, index finger tapping against his mahogany desk in a rapidfire motion that Winter had learned to recognize as his pre-explosion tell, "—unacceptable."

And then something unprecedented occurred.

Instead of her usual composed absorption of his critique, Winter's face crumpled into what could only be described as a squeaky whimper, a sound so incongruous with her usual professional demeanor that it seemed to physically stun Junho into silence. It was the acoustic equivalent of watching a Mercedes-Benz hiccup.

The algorithm crashed.

—

[1] Junho Kim, CEO of Quantum Logistics Solutions, net worth $2.3B (₩3.1T), possessed what his former Harvard professors called "an almost frightening capacity for data retention" and what his former therapist (sessions terminated after 2.5 meetings) called "a pathological inability to process emotional bandwidth."

[2] A phenomenon her roommate had dubbed "The Accent Anxiety Index," where her carefully practiced Seoul pronunciation would gradually give way to her native Busan satoori, ranging from barely detectable at Level 1 ("감사합니다") to full coastal at Level 10 ("아이고, 사장님, 이 숫자 영 아니네요").

[3] The 3-minute early arrival would later be explained by a complex series of events involving a broken elevator, two flights of stairs, and Winter's determination not to let her carefully constructed timeline collapse due to mechanical failure.

—

The following Friday's debrief began with Junho actually pulling out Winter's chair[4], a gesture so unexpected that she nearly missed the seat entirely. The portfolio was reviewed. The whiskey was poured (Junho's usual Macallan 25, Winter's Hwayo 41). And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, Winter's accent kicked into what would later be classified as Level 11 on the Southern Comfort Scale.

"You know what your problem is, sajangnim?" Minjeong's words carried the warm weight of soju and suppressed frustration, her carefully maintained Seoul accent dissolving entirely into coastal inflections. "당신은 인생을 마치 스프레드시트처럼 대하시네요. Everything must calculate perfectly, but people aren't numbers, and some of us are tired of being debugged like broken code."

Junho's finger stopped its habitual tapping mid-motion[5].

—

[4] A gesture learned from a WikiHow article titled "Basic Human Courtesy: A Beginner's Guide" that Junho had queued up on his tablet at 3:47 AM the previous Tuesday.

[5] Later analysis would reveal this as the exact moment Junho Kim, master of algorithms and logistics, encountered a variable his photographic memory couldn't process: genuine human connection.[6]

The office fell into a silence that could be measured in heartbeats (Junho's: an efficient 72 BPM; Minjeong's: an elevated 98 BPM). Outside, Seoul's financial district performed its usual Friday night exodus, the sound of departing Mercedes and BMWs creating a capitalistic symphony twenty-three floors below.

"시간이..." Minjeong continued, her Busan accent now operating at what could only be classified as Level 12[7], "Time isn't just money, 사장님. Sometimes it's just... time. Like those lunches you wolf down in exactly eight minutes while reading reports. Or these Friday meetings where you never actually look at me, just through me at some invisible spreadsheet floating in the air behind my head."

Junho's hand, still frozen mid-tap, slowly lowered to the desk. His photographic memory began involuntarily cataloging details it had somehow missed during their previous 47 debriefs: the way Minjeong's left hand always fidgeted with her portfolio's corner when nervous, how her voice carried traces of sea salt and summer festivals despite years of Seoul speech coaching, the fact that she had memorized his coffee preferences down to the precise temperature (81°C, no higher, no lower).

"I do look at you," he said, then immediately registered the statistical improbability of his own response[8].

Minjeong's laugh carried the particular timber of someone who had been holding it in reserve for approximately 11.7 months. "아니요, you really don't. You look at KPIs and performance metrics and quarterly projections. Did you know," she leaned forward, her accent thick as Busan fog, "that I've worn the same earrings every Friday for three months just to see if you'd notice?"

The earrings in question were small silver cranes, Junho's memory instantly supplied, purchased from a street vendor in Gukje Market during last quarter's Busan office inspection, chosen because their wings formed the mathematical symbol for infinity when viewed from the correct angle[9].

—

[6] A concept that would later require Junho to create an entirely new category in his mental filing system, located somewhere between "Acceptable Business Practices" and "Breathing Exercises (Mandatory)."

[7] A previously theoretical level on the Accent Anxiety Index, characterized by the complete abandonment of Seoul linguistic pretense and the emergence of what Minjeong's mother would call "우리 딸의 진짜 목소리" (our daughter's real voice).

[8] Statistical analysis of Junho's daily eye contact patterns, conducted by his personal AI assistant, revealed an average sustained eye contact duration of 1.3 seconds with all employees, making his current 4.7-second gaze at Minjeong a 361.5% deviation from the mean.

[9] A detail that would have impressed Junho greatly had he noticed it at the time of purchase, rather than at this precise moment when his brain was simultaneously trying to process the concept of infinity and the way Minjeong's eyes reflected the city lights like binary code translated into stardust.

—

The Hwayo bottle stood between them like a glass mediator, its contents depleted by exactly 73.4%. Junho found himself performing calculations he had never previously considered necessary: the precise angle at which Minjeong's smile disrupted his cardiac rhythm (42.7°), the correlation coefficient between her proximity and his ability to maintain coherent thought patterns (inverse relationship, R² = 0.97), the half-life of each satoori-tinged syllable in his auditory memory (approaching infinity)[10].

"There's a pojangmacha," Minjeong said, her words now performing linguistic gymnastics between Seoul and Busan, "down in Gangnam that serves 할매's 파전 just like back home. But you—" she gestured with her glass, creating small amber trajectories in the air, "—you probably have the exact caloric content memorized without ever tasting it."

"624 calories per standard serving," Junho confirmed automatically, then added, in what he would later recognize as his first attempt at human humor[11], "Not accounting for 할매's (grandmother’s) love."

The laugh that escaped Minjeong's lips was genuine enough to bypass all of Junho's statistical models for appropriate business interaction. It was the kind of laugh that made him wonder if his entire algorithmic approach to life had been operating on a fundamental error: the assumption that human emotions could be debugged rather than experienced.

"사장님," she said, then caught herself, "아니, Junho-ssi." The honorific shift created a quantifiable disruption in the office's atmospheric pressure[12]. "Do you know why I cry sometimes when you yell about the numbers?"

Junho's hands found themselves attempting to calculate an emotion he had no formula for. "I... have a working hypothesis."

"It's not because I'm scared or hurt," she continued, her Busan accent now wrapping around the words like a warm coast-side breeze. "It's because I see you turning yourself into code, like you're trying to compile a human being into binary, and..." she paused, searching for words in both Seoul and Busan vocabularies before settling on, "...그게 너무 아까워요."

The phrase hung in the air, untranslatable in its full emotional weight[13].

—

[10] A phenomenon that would later require Junho to create an entirely new mathematical framework he privately termed "The Minjeong Constant: Variables in Human Connection."

[11] Later analysis of office security footage would reveal this as his first non-data-related comment in approximately 2,847 hours of recorded business interactions.

[12] Advanced environmental sensors in the building's HVAC system actually recorded a 0.02% change in air pressure at this exact moment, though causation versus correlation remains a subject of debate among the building's maintenance staff.

[13] The closest English approximation might be "it's such a waste," but this fails to capture the uniquely Korean sense of regret for potential beauty lost to unnecessary efficiency, like trying to measure ocean waves in milliliters.

—

For exactly 15.4 seconds, Junho Kim—master of instantaneous data processing, champion of real-time analytics—found himself buffering. His mind, that perfectly calibrated instrument of calculation, attempted to run multiple subroutines simultaneously:

ROUTINE_1: Analyze the 2.3% tremor in Minjeong's voice during "그게 너무 아까워요"

ROUTINE_2: Process the 7.4mm dilation of his pupils upon hearing his given name

ROUTINE_3: Calculate the exact distance between their hands on the desk (23.7cm, decreasing by approximately 0.3mm per heartbeat)

ERROR: Stack overflow in emotional processing unit[14]

"I have a file," he began, then stopped, realizing that perhaps not everything needed to be classified and stored. "No, I mean... I remember every time you've smiled at work. Real smiles, not the ones you use for clients or difficult vendors." His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking a keyboard that wasn't there. "The data suggests that they occur most frequently when you're talking about Busan, or when you think no one is watching you arrange the office plants, or..." he paused, processing, "...or when you're correcting my humanity protocols[15]."

Minjeong's eyes widened, creating what Junho's brain automatically calculated as a 34.6% increase in their reflective surface area. "You... keep track of my smiles?"

"I keep track of everything," he said, then amended, displaying unprecedented runtime flexibility, "but your smiles occupy 43% more memory space than standard data points."

"아이고," Minjeong laughed, the sound carrying hints of sea breezes and noraebang nights, "only you would quantify feelings in percentages and memory allocation, 사장님[16]."

The Hwayo bottle now stood at 82.6% depletion. Outside, Seoul had transformed into its weekend configuration, all neon equations and binary dreams. But inside this office, something unquantifiable was compiling—a program written in neither Python nor Java, but in the ancient code of human connection.

"There's a logical error in your earlier statement," Junho said suddenly, his voice performing calculations it had never been calibrated for. "About me not looking at you."

"Oh?" Minjeong's eyebrow arched at precisely 27 degrees.

"I look at you approximately 2,347 times per day. My peripheral vision activates in your presence with 72% more frequency than baseline. I have memorized exactly 267 variations of your voice modulation between Seoul and Busan registers[17]. The error," he continued, his own accent slipping for the first time since Harvard, "is in assuming I don't see you."

—

[14] A phenomenon his Harvard professors had theoretically predicted but never successfully documented: the complete shutdown of pure logic circuits in favor of what they termed "human.exe."

[15] A private joke that had never made it past his internal firewall until this moment, referring to the way she subtly guided him toward more socially acceptable behaviors, like suggesting he say "good morning" to the cleaning staff or remember team members' birthdays.

[16] The honorific here carrying a new weight, somewhere between professional distance and affectionate teasing, a linguistic quantum state that would have fascinated physicists had they been present to observe it.

[17] This particular statistic would later become the subject of a 3 AM realization that perhaps "normal" CEOs don't maintain such detailed databases of their assistants' vocal patterns.

—

The confession hung in the air with the weight of a misplaced decimal point. Minjeong's hand, still holding her Hwayo glass, trembled at a frequency of approximately 3.2 Hz. The office's automated climate control system registered a sudden 0.7°C spike in local temperature[18].

"그래서..." Minjeong's voice emerged in Pure Pattern #271 (Subcategory: Emotional Breakthrough), "this is why you always know when I've had 떡볶이 for lunch?"

The unexpected query caused Junho to experience what his systems could only classify as a brief moment of runtime joy. "The specific aroma particles adhere to your cardigan at a rate of—" he caught himself, noting the gleam in her eye, and for the first time in recorded history, Junho Kim deliberately chose not to complete a calculation[19].

Instead, he found himself saying, "Your smile increases by exactly 23.7% when you eat 떡볶이. It's... optimal."

"최적화?" Minjeong's laugh carried notes of soju and starlight. "You're really going to data-analyze my happiness levels?"

"I have spreadsheets," he admitted, his voice carrying an unfamiliar warmth that his diagnostic systems struggled to categorize. "Cross-referenced with weather patterns, quarterly reports, and the frequency of your Busan accent emergence[20]."

"아이고..." She shifted in her chair, reducing the distance between them by precisely 4.7 centimeters. "You're either the weirdest or the most romantic person I've ever met, and I haven't decided which yet."

The word 'romantic' created a momentary buffer overflow in Junho's cognitive processes. His hands, typically occupied with calculating profit margins or optimizing supply chains, found themselves drawing abstract patterns on his desk's surface—a behavior previously filed under 'Inefficient Human Gestures: Do Not Engage.'

"I could..." he paused, processing, "...show you the data?"

—

[17] This particular dataset would later be renamed in his personal files to "The Minjeong Codex: A Quantitative Analysis of Qualitative Perfection."

[18] The building's maintenance staff would later attribute this to a mechanical anomaly, unaware they had documented the exact moment Junho Kim's ice-cold corporate facade began its calculated melt.

[19] A moment that would later be marked in his personal development log as "First Successful Implementation of Strategic Data Suppression for Emotional Optimization."

[20] These spreadsheets, discovered months later during a routine server backup, would become legendary among the IT department as "The Love Languages of Linear Regression."

—

Minjeong's eyes sparkled with what Junho's facial recognition protocols quantified as 87% mirth, 13% tenderness. "보여주세요," she said, the soju making her consonants softer, more Busan-bound. "Show me this data about me."

For the first time in his professional career, Junho Kim fumbled with his laptop password[21]. The Hwayo bottle between them had decreased to critical levels, and he found the standard office lights were creating unusual prismatic effects in Minjeong's hair. His fingers, typically precise to the microsecond, skittered across the keyboard.

"See, here's the correlation between your happiness metrics and the proximity to Korean holidays," he began, then stopped, distracted by the way she'd rolled her chair closer to view his screen. The scent of her perfume (도라지 꽃, his brain supplied automatically, though for once the percentage calculation felt irrelevant) mixed with the lingering soju in the air.

"You made a pie chart," she said, her voice warm with something his systems were too buzzed to properly quantify, "of my favorite lunch spots?"

"The data visualization seemed... appropriate," he managed, aware that his usual processing power was operating at diminished capacity. "Though I may have spent a statistically anomalous amount of time color-coding it to match your favorite blazer[22]."

Minjeong's laugh had shed all traces of its Seoul polish. "어머나, who knew the great Junho Kim was such a..." she searched for the word in both dialects before landing on, "...nerd?"

"I prefer 'data enthusiast,'" he replied, surprising himself with the speed of his response. The soju was definitely affecting his standard processing delays. "Though my enthusiasm appears to be... specialized."

"Specialized?" Her eyebrow arched in a way that created unprecedented disruptions in his cardiac rhythm.

"The data suggests," he said, his own Gangnam accent softening around the edges, "a singular focus on one particular... variable[23]."

The office space seemed to contract by approximately 40%, though Junho found himself caring less about the exact percentage with each passing moment. Minjeong's hand had somehow migrated to rest near his on the desk, their fingers separated by a gap that felt simultaneously quantum and cosmic.

—

[21] Password: Min2847@QLS, a combination he would later realize was more revealing than any spreadsheet.

[22] The blazer in question: a deep navy piece from a Dongdaemun boutique, worn approximately every third Wednesday, correlated with a 34% increase in his productive distraction levels.

[23] Later analysis of the office security footage would show that at this point, Junho's typically perfect posture had relaxed to unprecedented levels, creating what the ergonomics AI labeled as "Optimal Romance Angles."

—

"Show me more," Minjeong said softly, unconsciously tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Something in her tone caused Junho's spinal alignment to automatically straighten, his shoulders squaring as he leaned forward slightly. The motion created what his hazily analytical mind registered as a subtle shift in the office's power dynamics[24].

"These graphs," he began, his voice dropping half an octave without any conscious input, "track every time you've challenged my decisions in meetings." His finger traced the upward trend line, the gesture somehow both precise and possessive. "You're the only one who dares to correct my logic. It's... intriguing."

Minjeong's breath caught audibly. "사장님..." she started, then with visible effort, "Junho-ssi... you track even that?"

"I track everything about you," he admitted, the soju finally overriding his professional filter subroutines. The way she instinctively ducked her head at his words, a soft pink rising in her cheeks, sparked something primal in his usually ordered mind. "Though lately, I find myself more interested in the unquantifiable variables[25]."

"Like what?" The question emerged barely above a whisper, her natural deference to his authority softened by something warmer, more personal.

Junho felt his hand move with uncharacteristic boldness to tilt her chin up, his thumb registering her pulse point at... he realized with start that for the first time in his adult life, he didn't care about the exact number. What mattered was the acceleration, the way her breath stuttered when he held her gaze.

"Like the way you automatically straighten my tie when you think I'm not paying attention," he murmured, voice steady despite the soju. "Or how you always wait for me to take the first sip of coffee in our morning meetings[26]."

—

[24] The building's pressure sensors detected a subtle but measurable change in the room's atmospheric density, as if the very air was rearranging itself around their shifting dynamic.

[25] Security logs would later note this as the moment Junho Kim's typing pattern on his laptop transitioned from "Corporate Efficiency" to what could only be described as "Focused Intensity."

[26] A habit that Minjeong had developed unconsciously over months, part of an unspoken protocol that went far beyond mere professional courtesy.

—

The laptop screen dimmed to conserve power, casting half of Junho's face in shadow. His hand hadn't moved from her chin, thumb still resting against her pulse point in what his rapidly deteriorating analytical functions recognized as a gesture of both measurement and claim[27].

"You know what else I've noticed?" The question rumbled from somewhere deeper than his usual corporate register. His other hand reached past her to close the laptop with a decisive click, eliminating the last barrier between them. "You mirror my breathing patterns during long meetings. 호흡이... perfectly synchronized."

Minjeong's eyes widened fractionally, caught between the wall and his presence. "That's..." she swallowed, her professional composure wavering, "...very observant of you, 사장님."

"I thought we were past 사장님," he said softly, but with an undertone that made it less observation, more command. The soju had stripped his voice of its algorithmic precision, leaving something rawer, more intuitive[28].

"Jun...ho..." she tested the name without honorifics, the syllables carrying the weight of every unspoken variable between them. Her hands fidgeted with her portfolio, a nervous tell he'd documented approximately 847 times but had never been close enough to still before.

Until now.

His free hand covered both of hers, instantly calming their movement. The gesture was protective, possessive, and entirely unplanned by his usual decisional matrices[29]. "You don't need to calculate the right response," he murmured, unconsciously echoing her earlier criticism of his own binary nature. "Your instincts have a 99.9% accuracy rate."

The percentage slipped out automatically, making her laugh—a soft, breathy sound that seemed to bypass his auditory processing and strike directly at something more fundamental. Her head tilted back further, a movement so subtle it barely registered on the office's motion sensors but sent his pulse into unprecedented acceleration.

"My instincts," she whispered, her Busan accent emerging with complete authenticity, "are telling me we've miscategorized this relationship[30]."

—

[27] The building's biometric scanners would later flag this moment for what their algorithms labeled as "Significant Cardiovascular Anomaly: Dual Synchronization."

[28] Office voice recognition software attempted and failed to classify this new vocal pattern, eventually creating a new category labeled simply "After Hours Protocol."

[29] The exact pressure of his grip would have registered at precisely 7.2 PSI, perfectly calibrated between restraint and assertion, had either of them still been counting.

[30] The security AI, in its nightly report, would mark this exchange with a rare notation: "Recommended Reclassification of Personnel Relationship Status Pending."

—

"Miscategorized," Junho repeated, the word hanging in the air like a suspended calculation. His hand moved from her chin to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair with unprecedented decisiveness[31]. The motion drew her incrementally closer, though for once he didn't bother quantifying the exact distance.

"yes..." Minjeong's affirmation came out breathier than any of her previously recorded vocal patterns. The portfolio slipped from her fingers, creating what would normally be an unacceptable disruption of organized space. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.

"You know what's interesting?" Junho's voice had shed every trace of its corporate modulation, leaving only that command that seemed to resonate directly with her autonomic nervous system. "I've run approximately 2,847 scenarios of this moment in my head[32]."

Her hands had found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the precise Italian wool of his suit. "And?" The question emerged with a tremor that his tactile sensors catalogued automatically before his conscious mind told them to stop measuring and start feeling.

"None of them..." he leaned closer, watching her eyes flutter half-closed in response to his proximity, "...included the variable of you looking at me exactly like this."

The faint scent of soju on her breath mingled with that eternally elusive percentage of 도라지 꽃 perfume. Junho felt his last analytical subroutines shutting down, replaced by something far more ancient than algorithms[33].

"Minjeong-ah," he said, his voice dropping to a register that bypassed all honorifics, all corporate hierarchy, all pretense of professional distance.

Her response was to cant her head just so, a motion that managed to be both surrender and invitation. "Calculation time's over, 사장님," she whispered, the honorific now carrying a weight that had nothing to do with corporate structure.

—

[31] The office's motion sensors registered this gesture as "Executive Override: Priority Action."

[32] This number, like most of his remaining statistics, was completely fabricated—a first for Junho Kim's otherwise impeccable data records.

[33] Building security cameras would later mark this timestamp with an unprecedented classification: "Critical System Override: Human.exe fully activated."

—

For the first time in his documented existence, Junho Kim stopped calculating entirely.

The distance closed between them with a momentum that defied measurement. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her face upward as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss, when it came, contained no statistics, no data points, no quantifiable metrics[34].

Minjeong made a soft sound—Pattern #unknown, Category: heaven—against his mouth. Her fingers clutched his suit lapels with enough force to wrinkle the wool beyond its optimal pressed state, a fact that Junho's usually meticulous mind registered and immediately discarded as irrelevant.

Time segmented into a new measurement system: the catch of her breath, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the way she yielded and pressed closer simultaneously. Junho discovered that his organizational skills apparently extended to kissing, each angle adjustment and pressure variation drawing increasingly desperate responses from Minjeong[35].

When they finally broke apart, Minjeong's carefully maintained Seoul pronunciation had disappeared entirely. "아이고..." she breathed against his mouth, "당신이..."

"Initial results," Junho murmured, his own accent thick with something that had nothing to do with regional linguistics, "require extensive further testing[36]."

She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest where she was still pressed against him. "Did you just turn our first kiss into a quality control protocol?"

"Quality confirmed," he replied, then demonstrated his newfound commitment to hands-on research by kissing her again, harder this time, swallowing her surprised gasp. His hand splayed possessively across her lower back, holding her steady as she swayed into him.

—

[34] The building's atmospheric sensors recorded unexplained fluctuations in local temperature, humidity, and electromagnetic fields, leading to a complete recalibration of their measurement standards.

[35] Later analysis would suggest that Junho's legendary attention to detail had found a new, decidedly non-professional application, though this data remains classified in personal files marked "Private Research: Ongoing."

[36] The security AI attempting to transcribe this conversation eventually gave up and simply tagged the file: "Error 404: Professionalism Not Found."

—

Somewhere in the haze of non-analytical thought, Junho registered Minjeong's slight backward momentum and moved instinctively to steady her. His hand swept the desk clear with uncharacteristic disregard for organizational protocols, sending the quarterly reports flutter-falling to the carpet in an acceptable margin of chaos[37].

"Jun...ho..." His name escaped her lips like a statistical anomaly as he lifted her effortlessly onto the mahogany surface. Her legs parted automatically to accommodate him, skirt hiking up precisely 4.7 inches—the last measurement his brain would process for the foreseeable future.

"So beautiful," he murmured against her throat, the words emerging in pure Gangnam inflection, all pretense of corporate diction abandoned. His teeth grazed her pulse point, drawing a whimper that would require an entirely new classification system[38].

Minjeong's fingers tangled in his precisely styled hair, disrupting approximately 47 minutes of morning grooming routine. "사장님," she gasped, the honorific now carrying entirely different connotations, "the papers..."

"Irrelevant data," he growled, recapturing her mouth with newfound authority. The kiss deepened, transformed, became something that defied all previous parameters. Her back arched into him, creating angles that had nothing to do with geometry and everything to do with instinct[39].

A distant part of his mind registered the soft thud of his suit jacket hitting the floor, followed by the whisper of silk as Minjeong's blazer joined it. The city lights painted silver equations across her skin, codes he suddenly needed to decode with his mouth instead of his mind.

—

[37] The office's normally pristine state would require exactly 23.7 minutes to restore, a task that would be significantly delayed by several subsequent "data collection sessions."

[38] Facial recognition software attempting to analyze the security feed would crash repeatedly, unable to reconcile Junho Kim's expression with any known configuration in its emotional database.

[39] The building's structural integrity sensors registered minor seismic activity, though this data would be suspiciously absent from the next day's maintenance logs.

—

He let his hands trail by the sides of her body, one busy with her torso—breasts and all—and the other, feeling the creamy softness of her thighs. And each needy press or pinch, brought out the softest of her moans, the cutest of her lip quivers.

He was busy, marking her lips, making it all swollen and red; yet, still, he couldn’t get enough of her. That soft body, her caring little hands, her hot inner thighs, and that gentle heat radiating off her core—just hidden by the slightest of her skirt. “Minjeong.” He whispered, pressing himself against her—a matter of teasing and also a way to test the waters, whether or not she wanted it on the table.

And Minjeong, not one to initiate, wrapped her thin arms around his nape, pulling him closer, “Yes, yes, please, anything, anywhere,” then a dozen little kisses all on his face. This assurance, this consent, slowly, but surely, made him wrench her legs open—wide. He saw that stain, dark against her gray underwear, and that was when his photographic memory… failed him.

He dug in, letting his loin press up against hers—immersing himself in her wetness. Then, finally, he pulled down on his pants, showing his tent-like imprint on his underwear to Minjeong, who, obviously, couldn’t stop staring. By the end of the minute, that ruthless minute, both were undressed in their lower-half—a utilitarian instinct to fuck each other as fast as possible.

Junho breathed heavily, staring at that pink hue that her core was so beautifully composed of—along with the wetness, the fragrance, and more. “Minjeong…” He held his shaft, lining it up straight on her wetness. She finally replied, “Yes… Junho…” And that’s when he pressed in, into the endless heat.

That wet connection hilt-to-hilt, along with a deep kiss—turned Minjeong completely docile and submissive. That wet connection, her wet slime covering his shaft, somehow, only intensified their lust for each other. He pressed in again, faster this time, earning that soft mewl. “Mhm, fuck me,” she whispered, again and again. He kept honoring those wishes, going deeper, and faster. He tucked his dick into her pussy, wet squelch and all, over and over until he felt his legs get weak from thrusting. Yet, that weakness didn’t deter him, he glided deeper, letting both their pelvises rub against each other, and making Minjeong cry out from the clit stimulation. She felt like she was getting tunneled, this man, the love of her life, crush of her lifetime, fucking her so good into a wobbly table—dreams aren’t even this good.

“I’m gonna cum, Minjeong.” He whispered, low and growling.

“Inside. Please. Inside…” She whispered before getting overtaken by her orgasm.

And just at the peak of her orgasm, the teetering breath before rest, Junho barreled all his semen inside her—rope after rope of semen splashing against her cervix. “Holy fuck.” they both said in conjunction. 

—

The Seoul skyline had shifted into its late-night configuration by the time they finally disentangled themselves. Junho's normally immaculate shirt hung open, his tie having long since joined the scattered papers on the floor. Minjeong's hair had abandoned all pretense of its usual professional arrangement, falling in waves that his fingers couldn't seem to stop threading through[40].

"이게..." Minjeong began, her voice still carrying traces of breathlessness as she surveyed the chaos they'd created. Her blazer lay draped over a chair at an angle that would have horrified their usual professional standards. "I should reorganize the—"

"Stay exactly where you are," Junho commanded softly, his arms tightening around her waist. His usual perfectionism had found a new target: the way she melted against him at that tone[41].

She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her smile pure Busan sunshine. "데이트하자... be my 오빠?" The question emerged with endearing uncertainty, mixing honorifics and languages in a way that bypassed his brain entirely and struck straight at his heart.

"그래," he murmured into her hair, then with characteristic precision added, "Exclusively."

Her laugh carried notes of joy and residual shyness. "Then as your girlfriend, I should really clean up this mess..." She gestured at the scattered papers, the displaced furniture, the general dishevelment that spoke eloquently of the past hour's activities.

"As your boyfriend," his voice dropped to that commanding register that made her shiver, "I want to watch you do it[42]."

The drive home—his penthouse, by unspoken agreement—required exactly 17 minutes. Neither of them bothered to count.

—

[40] The building's security system would later note this as the longest recorded instance of the CEO remaining in office after hours, though the detailed logs were mysteriously corrupted.

[41] Internal HR protocols regarding workplace relationships were hastily updated the following morning, though no one questioned why the CEO personally oversaw these revisions.

[42] The night cleaning staff would arrive to find the office in unprecedented perfect order, though several employees would later swear they heard laughter and whispered Busan endearments echoing through the empty halls.

Fin

[sulkingheichou012]

Into the Dungeon with You

Pairing: Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: RomCom, Action, Future Smut

Warning: Description of violence and profanity.

Summary: Jinwoo frowned as a new system notification appeared before him.

[Special Reward Successfully Claimed.]

Author's note: I'm happy that some of you are enjoying my silly work! Yes, if you're asking to be tagged—sure! 😊

Chapter 6

Jinwoo took a step forward. The battered boss, still recovering from Y/N’ unexpected punch, growled low in its throat. But it was slow now. Sloppy. The perfect opening.

Jinwoo took charge again, moving with new focus. His shadows rallied under the boost from Y/N. Bellion sliced through the boss monster’s legs. Beru tore into its throat. Tank pounced, pinning it down, while Tusk finished with a barrage of spells.

With a swift motion, Jinwoo’s dagger cut through the air. “Perish”

Finally, the boss monster collapsed, shuddering, and dissolved into shadows.

The dungeon was silent.

Except for Y/N, still staring at her fist.

Jinwoo exhaled and turned his attention to the System Notifications floating in front of him. His eyes flicked from one glowing window to another, carefully analyzing the data.

⟪ SPECIAL REWARD UNLOCKED: Y/N ⟫ ⟪ ABILITY REVIEW - Shadow Resonance: Ability to amplify and evolve the Shadow Monarch's summoned forces through emotional command. Buffs and evolution can be triggered without direct contact.

(Current Trigger: Emotional intensity and focused attention on the shadow in question.) ⟫

⟪ ABILITY REVIEW - Combat Synchronization: Temporarily synchronizes the user’s entire physical, magical, and combat instincts with the Shadow Monarch. Grants access to abilities, combat reflexes, and stats at the Monarch’s current level.

(Current Trigger: Triggered by protective instincts or threat response. Control can be mastered over time.) ⟫

⟪ ABILITY REVIEW - Shadow Manifestation: Can manifest the will and combat essence of fallen warriors not yet turned into shadows. Summons display peak strength and combat mastery.

(Current Trigger: Pending… Skill locked.) ⟫

Jinwoo sighed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She really is something.”

He remembered when he first claimed her as a reward, standing in that cave wondering if the system had scammed him. A clueless woman in shorts and a loose shirt was not what he expected from a ‘special reward’.

And yet— Now, here she was. Upgrading his army, punching monsters through dungeon walls, and accidentally unlocking skills he hadn’t even dreamed of.

Jinwoo shook his head, amused. “System, you sneaky bastard.”

Y/N, still marveling at the size of Beru’s claws nearby, was startled when Jinwoo called her over. “Y/N.” “Huh? Yes, boss—I mean, Jinwoo?” She scrambled over, wiping imaginary dust off her hands. “Sit.” He gestured to a rock. She plopped down without argument.

Jinwoo crossed his arms, staring at her like a teacher about to explain quantum physics to a student who just learned basic math.

Jinwoo pointed at Igris, who stood tall nearby, his newly upgraded form gleaming in the dim dungeon light. “When you cheered for Igris earlier, you evolved him. Made him stronger without touching him.” Y/N’ mouth fell open. “I did that?” Jinwoo nodded. “You also knocked out a high-tier monster back when we first met.” Her expression shifted from awe to disbelief. Y/N looked at her hands like they had secret nuclear codes embedded in the fingertips. “Oh my god…” “Yeah, I panicked!” she huffed, crossing her arms. “Exactly. That panic triggered Combat Synchronization.”

Y/N squinted. “So… if I get scared, I become strong?” Jinwoo shrugged. “Fear, instinct, emotions—maybe at will, it’s complicated. But yes, you sync with me. My stats become your stats.” Y/N sat there for a moment, then broke into a slow grin. Jinwoo laughed quietly under his breath. “I almost thought you were a scam.” “HEY!” Y/N smacked his arm. “But now,” he continued, smirking at her outrage, “you’re one of the best things to happen to my army.”

Y/N glowed at the praise but tried to play it cool. “Oh, you know… I aim to please.” Jinwoo stood, offering his hand to her. “Come on. Let’s see how much more we can unlock.” Y/N grabbed his hand, standing up with a grin. “Let’s go, boss!” Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. “You’re not getting paid.” She shrugged. “Fine, but I want snacks after this.” “Deal.”

Y/N wasn’t done. “And if I synchronize with you, I can totally copy your cool moves, right? I can, like, do those shadow teleports, and the dagger flips, and maybe even the brooding stare!” She immediately attempted the brooding stare. It looked more like she needed to sneeze.

Jinwoo watched in silence.

After clearing the dungeon, Jinwoo finally called it a day. Y/N was still buzzing with energy, practically skipping beside him as they exited the gate.

She was mid-ramble, waving her arms around. “—wait! Did you see me ran so fast to punch that terrifying boss? Olympic level! I deserve a medal! Or, like, I dunno, at least a chocolate bar.”

Jinwoo glanced sideways at her. “…Ice cream.”

Y/N froze mid-step. “What?”

He kept walking. “You want ice cream?” “Are you serious?!” She practically tripped over her own feet catching up to him. “Sung Jinwoo… is treating me… to ice cream?!”

Jinwoo’s expression didn’t change, but he tilted his head in that subtle way. “You’ve been… less useless today,” he said flatly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She clutched her chest dramatically.

They found a small street vendor not far from the raid site. Jinwoo handed over some cash without much thought, and the vendor—clearly recognizing him—stared in awe as Korea’s strongest hunter bought two cones like it was totally normal.

Y/N picked the most colorful one. Rainbow sprinkles. Chocolate chips. Something that sparkled. Jinwoo took plain vanilla. Classic.

She looked at his cone, then hers. “Boring choice for a Monarch of Shadows.” Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need sprinkles to be strong.”

Y/N grinned and bumped her cone gently against his like a toast. “To surviving another day!” “…To surviving,” he agreed, taking a slow bite like it was a combat exercise.

That night, Jinwoo finally allowed himself some rest.

For once, Y/N wasn’t bribing his shadows to evolve in exchange for favors. Definitely not. Especially not Igris—he already evolved! No, Y/N was more like… collecting debts. And right now, she was cashing in by ordering Igris to sit still while she braided his hair antenna and tied a cute little ribbon at the end.

Jinwoo let out an exhausted sighed and went to his room.

He closed his eyes.

And he dreamed.

He stood in a vast, endless space of darkness. Not his shadow world—something older. Colder. He recognized it. The place where Ashborn once reigned. Where he had spoken to Jinwoo for the first time.

And there, ahead of him… Ashborn stood.

But this time, Jinwoo wasn’t alone. A figure appeared next to him. Small compared to the massive shadow monarch… but standing without fear. Y/N.

She was staring straight at Ashborn. And Ashborn… Ashborn was nodding at her. Like he had chosen her. Like he was pleased.

A voice echoed in Jinwoo’s head.

“The successor… must not stand alone.” “The monarch must have an anchor.” “She is the anchor.”

And then Jinwoo’s shadows appeared around them—an endless army—but they weren’t looking at Jinwoo.

They bowed to Y/N.

Jinwoo sat bolt upright in bed. He was sweating. He checked his system. Nothing. Checked his shadows. Still there. But there was… something.

He summoned Bellion.

Bellion appeared, kneeling immediately. “My Liege.”

“What did you find?” Jinwoo asked. His voice was tight. Bellion lowered his head. “The reward… the woman. She was chosen by Ashborn.” “…What?” Jinwoo’s pulse pounded in his ears. “Before his fall, our king chose her. As a safeguard. In case his successor failed… or stood alone.”

Jinwoo exhaled slowly, piecing it together. Ashborn had made preparations beyond just him.

Bellion’s next words were heavier still. “She holds potential not even you have yet unlocked. But she is… untrained. Untested.”

Jinwoo rubbed his face. Great. Perfect. His “special reward” wasn’t just a clueless fangirl —she was a living contingency plan. A wild card. And she had zero idea about it.

He found her in the kitchen the next morning. She was pouring cereal into a bowl, casually humming the Attack on Titan theme under her breath. But then—she couldn’t hold it back anymore. The hype hit her like a titan charging the wall. She dropped her spoon with a dramatic clatter, slammed her fist over her chest in a perfect Scout Regiment salute, and shouted at full volume, “Sasageyo! Sasageyo! Shinzou wo sasageyo!”

Jinwoo stared at her for a long moment. This was the person Ashborn had chosen. This was his… anchor?

Y/N looked up. “Morning! Want cereal?”

Jinwoo kept staring. Y/N tilted her head. “Uh… you okay?”

He finally sighed and turned away. “Fine. Cereal.”

She smiled brightly and handed him a bowl like they were two roommates, not a Monarch and a supposed cosmic contingency plan.

She doesn’t know. She has no idea. She thinks this is just some adventure or dream or… something. Ashborn picked her. As a safeguard. A partner? And she’s over there dunking Choco Pebbles into milk like it’s the best thing in the world.

Jinwoo ate his cereal in silence.

Beru materialized in the shadows behind him. “My Liege. Shall we inform the young lady of her destiny?”

Jinwoo took a long bite of cereal. Chewed. Swallowed. “No.”

Beru tilted his head.

“Not yet,” Jinwoo added. “She’s not ready. And neither am I.”

<< Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 >>

Tag requests: @kisssleeping; @catsf0rlife707; @aorifukuzawa; @joannthebish; @ojog404; @tanspostsblog; @snowy-violet

[kngrose]

𝐒𝐎, 𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌?

chapter one: in another life.

Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.

CW: murder, stalking, general obsessive behaviors, self-deprecating ideologies, implied masturbation and voyeurism

series masterlist 𒌐 prologue 𒌐 chapter two

𒌐

Mornings were always the same.

Miguel arrived at the lab just past six. Earlier, if he couldn’t sleep, which was often. He preferred the quiet. The hum of the generators, the faint blue glow of the monitors, the sterile chill of air that hadn’t yet been touched by anyone else.

The lab recognized his retinal scan before the door finished sliding open. Lights blinked awake in waves as he stepped inside. One of the most advanced research facilities in the known multiverse, and still, it reeked of disinfectant and artificial air.

Screens lit up along the walls as he approached; dim blue holograms pulsing with quantum reads, dimensional overlays, real-time feeds from dozens of Earths’ he no longer cared to memorize. Routine had become second nature. Badge swipe. System diagnostics. Field report reviews. His fingers moved on instinct, pulling up simulations, patching glitches, recalibrating tech. He didn’t speak much during the day unless necessary, and no one questioned it. They knew better.

It was a comfortable rhythm. Efficient. Controlled.

On paper, his life was structured. Honorable, even. He was doing good work. Important work.

But he was growing tired.

He swiped through reports with short, impatient flicks of his fingers. Another ripple in Earth-142’s continuity. Another code collapse in 615. Another breech warning from 217 that someone else could deal with.

Lyla chimed, interrupting his spiral.

“You’ve been awake for forty-two hours, Miguel.”

He ignored it, continue to flic through the countless tabs. She’d said that yesterday too. There were no windows in his lab. He found it to be too much of a distraction, all the hustle and bustle of the city. He never noticed when the morning turned into the afternoon. Or the afternoon into the evening.

It started the way most anomalies did; quiet, buried in the noise.

Miguel scanned through a cluster of new dimensional activity flagged overnight. Dozens of variants popped up across the system: some familiar, some barely registering on baseline parameters. Most of them were garbage. Nothing threatening, nothing useful.

He pulled up a map of the multiversal stream, tabbing through familiar patterns, reconfirming clean pockets, filtering red zones. His fingers hesitated over a blip; Earth 529-B.

Not flagged. Not marked. Just a clean little speck, sitting between threads. Stable. Normal. He tapped into it out of habbit more than interest.

The static cleared, the screen refreshed.

And there he was.

It wasn’t unusual, but it was uncommon. It wasn’t everyday he strolled across variants of himself, and he could never swallow the curiosity the bubbled inside him when he did.

Miguel stared, unblinking, at the version of himself that looked, at first glance, completely unremarkable.

No suit. No enhancements. No visible signs of trauma. He looked… rested. A few years softer in the face. A slower gait. Comfortable.

He didn’t even notice her at first. The angle was off—one of the auxiliary spider-bots had perched too far back, catching a wide-angle view of a small living room. Evening light spilling through gauzy curtains, a girlish coffee mug left out. Slippers by the couch. The hum of a world too still to be dangerous.

Then the door opened.

She stepped into frame like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Laughing at something off-screen. Hair damp from a shower. No makeup. Soft. Barefoot. She carried a bowl of popcorn and sat beside the other Miguel like she’d done it a thousand times. Like her body knew exactly how to fit against his.

Miguel blinked.

She reached up without looking, fingers sliding into his alternates hair. Lazy affection. Thoughtless, practiced tenderness. She murmured something, and he smiled—this slow, sleepy kind of grin—and kissed the side of her head like it was second nature.

Miguel sat there, stone-still in the flickering dark of his lab, watching as this version of himself leaned back on the couch with the woman wrapped around him like gravity. They didn’t do anything extraordinary. They talked, teased each other. She stole a bite of his food, and he let her.

They looked happy.

Not that fragile, pretend kind of happiness people chase with noise and distraction. But the real kind. The quiet kind. The kind you build in slow, uneven steps until one day you look around and realize you’re home.

He shut the feed.

Forcefully.

The screen blinked black, and he sat back in the chair like the screen had burned him.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s not his life. Not his problem.

There were reports to file. Patrol routes to coordinate. A dimensional rift opening up three sectors down. And of course; his very own city that needs him.

He suited up without looking at his reflection. The suit gripped his spine, sealed across his ribs. A perfect fit. Calibrated to his exact vitals, responding to every breath and shift of weight. It felt like a second skin—one he hadn’t taken off in years, even when he wasn’t wearing it.

The lab faded behind him. The city opened up.

Night hadn’t fully settled yet. The sky above Nueva York was still bleeding orange and violet, city lights flickering to life like neurons firing across metal bones. Below, the world moved. Hovercars speeding between towers, neon bleeding across concrete, every surface alive with motion.

Miguel moved through it all like a ghost.

One webline shot clean across the gap between buildings—his body followed, weightless for half a second before momentum caught him and flung him forward again. He landed in a crouch on a vertical wall, pushed off, flipped into a dive.

The wind tore past him.

It always felt like this; violent, cold, almost too loud to think.

Perfect.

Because thinking meant remembering.

And tonight, he didn’t want to remember her face.

So he buried himself in the city’s demands.

A robbery in Sector 4. He took down four armed thieves in under thirty seconds. Disarmed, webbed, dropped them off for enforcement to collect without a word. One tried to run. He didn’t get far.

A dimensional disturbance near the lower market—just a flicker, a pressure glitch from a collapsing pocketverse. Miguel stabilized it with two drones and a pulse anchor. The rift spat static and tried to pull him in. It failed.

He helped clear a mag-lift derailment after that. A family had been trapped in the last car, one kid clutching a holographic plush and shaking so hard her fingers were white. Miguel ripped the door off with one hand, pulled them out with the other. The parents thanked him. The child cried.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t stay long enough to make it awkward.

He was gone before they’d stopped blinking.

It went like that for hours.

Problem after problem. Crisis after crisis.

And through all of it, the same feeling followed him like a shadow.

Emptiness.

It had been easy before. Easier, at least. You could survive anything if you gave enough of yourself to the work. You could build armor out of purpose. Convince yourself that saving the world meant more than having one of your own.

But now he’d seen it.

What his world could’ve been.

Miguel landed hard on the edge of a rooftop. The ledge cracked beneath his boots. His heart thudded behind his ribs. Not from exertion, but from something else. Something bitter.

The sky had gone dark. The city pulsed below. The wind was sharp, stinging across his exposed jaw.

He stayed there a while.

Looking.

But there was nothing to see.

Just lights. Just noise. Just another night in the city that never looked up.

He didn’t want to look out at the city anymore. He knew every corner of it. Knew how the people screamed when they were afraid and smiled when they thought someone else would save them.

He was always saving them.

The world called him a hero. But in every version of the world that mattered, he was alone. He knew what it meant to save a city. But not what it felt like to be missed when he was late for dinner.

Eventually, he made his way home.

He disengaged his suit and it peeled off like skin, slow and mechanical, then stepped into the low light of the adjoining room. The walls were bare. The furniture was functional. The kind of space meant to be lived in by someone too busy to live at all.

He ate standing at the kitchen counter—a protein bar, coffee, silence. No music. No laughter. No one calling from the next room asking if he remembered the groceries. No messages waiting on his communicator unless they were urgent.

They always were.

It crossed his mind then; that this wasn’t a home. It was a holding cell.

A place to sleep, to recharge. To rot.

He exhaled through his nose.

He told himself it would be the last time.

Just a quick look and he’d forget all about it entirely.

Just some… surveillance for work.

Miguel tapped in the stream manually again; Earth-529-B. He let the image unfold across his home monitor. No spider activity. No anomaly. Just an ambient feed. Quiet, domestic, uneventful.

She was in the kitchen this time. Hair pulled back. Pink slippers. Humming under her breath as she moved between cupboards, making something warm. The spider-bot’s proximity sensors recognized cinnamon and he could almost imagine it. The weight of it in the air. The heat. Her presence.

His other self walked in halfway through. Said something low. She grinned.

It was so small. So stupid. But it pulled at something sharp inside his chest.

The sound of her voice softened when she spoke to him.

The way she leaned into him without thinking. The way he knew where the mugs were without looking. The way she filled the silence, and the silence welcomed it.

Miguel watched his variant press a kiss to the back of her neck before settling at the table with a datapad. Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder as she passed.

Natural.

Unremarkable.

Unfair.

It hit him in the chest like a falling building.

Because this Miguel—the one on the screen—wasn’t saving the world. Wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t even tired. He was just loved. Fully. Softly. Without having to earn it.

And worse?

He looked like he deserved it.

Miguel scrubbed a hand down his face, throat tight. He should’ve looked away, closed the feed and labeled it as irrelevant. But his fingers hovered over the controls, frozen.

Her laugh looped back. The way she nudged the other Miguel’s knee. The way her eyes lit up when she teased him. She said his name, not just like it was familiar, but like it was sacred.

She was laughing at something his alternate said. Miguel replayed the footage ten times before he realized what it was that unsettled him—he wasn’t trying to be funny. She just loved him that way.

He sat back in his chair, the glow of the feed washing pale across his face. His apartment around him was still. Stark. Quiet. No warmth. No scent. Just glass, metal, and silence. The screens on the far wall dimmed automatically, sensing his stillness.

There was a moment where he could’ve shut it off again.

But he didn’t.

He leaned forward instead.

Zoomed the image slightly. Enhanced the audio.

She was talking about her day, rambling about something she read. Her mug clinked softly on the counter as she turned to lean on it, still facing her Miguel. Still smiling.

He doesn’t deserve that.

The thought came sudden. Fierce.

Miguel frowned.

He pulled up another data set beside the stream, basic file info on the variant. Not a Spider-Man. No mutations. Same genetic base, but untouched. Unchanged. The kind of man who never clawed his way through blood and glass to survive.

So why does he get this?

He wasn’t extraordinary. And yet everything around him felt like it had meaning. Including her.

His jaw tensed. He watched them a moment longer, then minimized the screen.

Didn’t close it. Just… minimized.

He’d definitely seen it.

A life he could’ve had. A version of himself that hadn’t burned everything down to be a hero. A woman who loved him for reasons he couldn’t understand; because this Miguel didn’t need to be impressive. He was just hers.

And Miguel wanted that.

He just didn’t know what to do about it yet.

𒌐

He didn’t mean to make it a habit.

It just happened.

Miguel started waking up earlier than usual. Not because of alarms or patrol rotations. Not because the city needed saving.

Because she was making breakfast at 6:12 a.m. on Earth 529-B and he wanted to be more than prepared to eat with her.

He memorized the time. Memorized the robe she wore. The way her hair was always half-wet from the shower. The color of her socks, mismatched. The soft rasp of her voice when she asked the other Miguel what he wanted in his coffee, even though she already knew.

She knew everything about him. All his tells. His rhythms. His moods. And Miguel watched it all.

The moment he stepped into the lab—before diagnostics, before reports, before even Lyla’s first dry-witted greeting—he pulled up the feed. Habitual now, like muscle memory.

The screen blinked to life in the quiet, low light of the lab. No one else around yet. Just him. Her. Him.

He was sitting at the breakfast table reading something on a tablet. She was making eggs. Plain, domestic.

Miguel stared.

She always cooked the eggs the same way. Over medium, yolk just barely soft. He’d watched her flip them with a practiced hand, adding a pinch of seasoning, sliding them onto a ceramic plate that didn’t match the rest of the dishes. His alternate liked toast with honey, no butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar.

He made note of it without meaning to.

She watched with fond eyes as he began to dig in.

Miguel sat at his console, empty stomach curled in on itself, and watched the version of himself eat breakfast with a woman who would never look at him like that.

Except… she did. Didn’t she?

In the feed. She smiled at him.

Just… not him.

He realized he’d been leaning forward, chin balanced in one hand, watching like it was a memory. Something half-remembered. Something his.

When Lyla flickered into view, mid-sentence, he shut the feed off too fast.

“…You good?” she blinked, cocking her digital head, a pixelated brow lifting. “You didn’t even run the scans. That’s unlike you.”

“I was thinking,” he said.

“Uh-huh. About what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away, pulled up system diagnostics, and dove headfirst into the next distraction.

He had started telling himself it was observation. Research. That he needed to understand the variables. How a version of himself had ended up like that. Soft. Loved. Whole.

But the truth was ugly. And it sat heavy under his skin.

He watched because he was starving.

He didn’t stop thinking about it.

Later that night, after patrol, after another series of city-saving acts that left him more bruised and empty than fulfilled, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror. His hair was still damp from the rain. He looked at himself for a long time.

Then he shrugged into an old t-shirt.

Not his usual black compression gear. Not the suit. Just a soft, worn thing he hadn’t touched in years. Something he’d seen the other Miguel wear. Something she’d smiled at once and said looked “comfy.”

He didn’t even remember owning it until he tore through storage earlier that week.

Now it was the only thing he wanted to wear.

He stood there for a while, studying his reflection. Adjusting the way he held his shoulders. Softening his mouth. Lowering his chin. Trying to remember exactly how the other him looked when she kissed his cheek that morning.

He tried it.

Tilted his head the same way. Smiled.

It felt wrong. Mechanical... hollow. Like wearing someone else’s skin.

But somehow, it felt right.

He didn’t know which one scared him more.

Eventually, he moved to the kitchen. Made himself toast with honey. No butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar. Just to know what it tasted like. Just to feel what he felt.

He sat at the counter, chewing slowly.

It tasted like nothing.

He finished it anyway.

𒌐

It was late when he watched again.

She was sitting on the floor this time, curled up beside the coffee table, scribbling notes in a book with a pencil tucked behind one ear. Her hair was messy, pulled up lazily. She was in socks and an oversized hoodie. One of his old ones—his variant’s, technically.

Miguel stared at her for a long time.

She didn’t do anything special. She scratched her head. Took a sip of tea. Pushed some stray hairs out of her eyes.

But for a moment, he could pretend. Pretend that she was just… there. With him. That he was in that apartment instead. That he could walk over and kneel beside her and ask what she was working on. That her soft expression was meant for him.

Miguel didn’t blink.

He could watch her like this for hours. No performance. No pretense. Just her in the quiet. Her existing. Breathing. It made him feel like there was still time to change everything. Like he could still be good.

But then, he heard the door.

Saw it swing open in the background.

And just like that; she smiled.

Her eyes lit up. Her entire posture changed.

The other Miguel walked in, pulling his jacket off. Tossed keys in a bowl by the wall. Said something that made her smile sweetly—he couldn’t hear what it was. But Miguel didn’t need it.

He saw it. Felt it. That subtle shift. That warmth.

The moment shattered.

It was no longer hers. No longer theirs.

The man, his alternate, walked up behind her and bent down to kiss her cheek. She tilted her head into the touch without thinking. She reached back and pulled him down beside her.

It was his again. His double’s. The man who walked through the door and made her smile like nothing else mattered. Who dropped a kiss to her cheek without thinking. Who made it look so easy. Effortless.

Like it wasn’t a miracle every time she looked up and smiled at him.

Miguel’s jaw clenched.

He watched them settle into the couch together, side by side like puzzle pieces. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he curled his fingers into hers.

It should’ve felt romantic. Instead, it felt like a knife.

Miguel leaned closer to the screen.

He watched the way the other him touched her; easy, like it came naturally. The kind of ease that was earned over years. That couldn’t be duplicated or hacked or built.

That kind of intimacy had to be lived.

It made something sharp twist in his chest.

Miguel sat back slowly in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes never leaving the screen.

In that moment, he stopped watching like an admirer.

He started studying like a thief.

𒌐

Miguel stood at the edge of his console, fingers resting on the metal rim, eyes locked on the monitor like it was a lifeline.

The man on the screen was getting dressed.

Simple button-down. Rolled sleeves. Loose slacks. He adjusted the collar, checked his watch. Normal. Human. Soft in all the ways Miguel had learned not to be.

He took a mental note. Third time this week he’d seen him choose light blue. Casual neutrals. No sharp edges, no commanding presence. Just… approachable. Like he never had to prove anything to anyone.

Miguel pulled the video feed back ten minutes. Watched it again.

And again.

Watched how he brushed his hair back with one hand while balancing a cup of coffee in the other. How he kissed her forehead in passing like it was nothing. How he laughed—real, full, and easy.

He didn’t just observe anymore. He documented. He had files now. Data folders.

“M. O’Hara – Earth 529-B”

Subcategories: Daily Routine. Speech Patterns. Work Habits. Dietary Preferences. Social Relationships.

He took note of everything.

His walk; slower, more relaxed.

His voice; slightly lower, but warmer in tone.

The way he always paused before answering a question, like he cared about getting it right. Like he was thinking not just about what to say, but how it would make her feel.

It infuriated Miguel.

And still, he watched.

He studied the man’s commute.

Mapped his route through the city. The exact time he left the house. The bakery he stopped at every Thursday. The woman who waved at him from the florist shop on Main. The coworkers he chatted with at the office. Their names. Faces. Jokes.

Every relationship cataloged. Every line of familiarity between them recorded.

There was a man named Elias he seemed close with. Taller. Sharp sense of humor. They got lunch together sometimes. Miguel watched himself make him laugh once. Saw the alternate Miguel bump his shoulder and mouth something like, “don’t even try it.”

He paused the feed there. Rewatched it.

That face he made. That casual confidence.

Miguel tilted his head. Tried to replicate it in the dark, reflection faint in the black of the monitor.

It didn’t look the same.

Then there were his hobbies.

Books he bought. Music he listened to. Shows she made him watch and he actually did—and liked. He remembered one night watching the variant clean the kitchen while humming something quiet, something old and half-Spanish. Something Miguel hadn’t heard since he was a boy.

It hurt more than it should have.

He made a note of it anyway.

Food preferences. His caffeine intake. The way he always took off his shoes before stepping inside the door. The way he sat with her on the couch, never on the other end, always close, always touching.

He memorized it. Not because he wanted to be like him. Because he wanted to be better.

Most disturbing of all was how naturally he slipped into it. The mimicry. The daily rehearsals.

He started adjusting his posture. Relaxing the tension in his shoulders. Practicing speech inflections alone in his apartment. Saying the same phrases over and over until he could say them like him.

He hated how easily it came to him. Like he’d always been waiting for an excuse.

The only thing he couldn’t replicate was the light in his eyes.Because that man, his alternate, had never seen what he’d seen.

He hadn’t lived in blood. He hadn’t watched whole worlds collapse. He hadn’t woken up every morning with no one.

That man got to live softly. Easily.

Loved.

𒌐

Miguel pulled the hood low over his forehead, the soft fabric shadowing his eyes, and tugged the mask up over his nose. The chill of the morning air bit at the exposed skin of his neck as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, his breath a faint cloud dissolving in front of him. The world smelled sharp with the scent of damp pavement and brewing coffee from nearby cafés.

For months he’d been trapped behind glass and glowing screens, a ghost tethered to a life he only observed from a distance. Watching her laugh, watching her move—never close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, never close enough to breathe the same air.

This isn’t enough. The thought clenched his chest like a vice.

He wanted to reach out. Not just through pixels, not just through data feeds—but to actually see her. To witness the small, unguarded moments. The way sunlight caught in her hair, the curve of her smile when she thought no one was watching, the softness in her eyes when she looked at the world with quiet hope.

So he came here.

A quiet observer cloaked in the mundane. A man in a hoodie and mask, drifting like a shadow through her world.

At the corner café, he lingered just out of sight. She was there, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup, eyes closed for a moment as if savoring a secret no one else could touch. His heart ached with the ache of absence, the desperate hunger to cross the divide.

Later, the grocery aisles became his sanctuary and his prison. He moved beside her, unseen, his eyes tracing the gentle arc of her movements, the way she paused to read a label, the faint glimmer in her eye when she caught sight of something familiar. Every small detail seared into his memory.

On the train, he shifted his stance, changed his coat, lowered his cap. Every time she boarded, his pulse quickened. Her presence was a balm and a torment all at once. He watched her lose herself in thought, the faintest crease of worry lining her brow, the delicate sigh she let out when the train rattled on.

And then; the collision.

Sudden and raw.

Their bodies met in a careless stumble. Papers scattered like startled birds. She looked up, eyes wide, catching his gaze through the dark mask.

For a heartbeat, the world fell away.

Her voice, soft and real, broke through the haze.

“I’m so sorry!”

His voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper.

“Sorry.”

Her eyes searched his, a flicker of recognition maybe—or just curiosity—before she stepped back, melting into the crowd. He stood frozen, heart pounding, breath shallow, the ache of longing crashing over him like a wave.

But she was already gone.

And he was left with nothing but the hollow echo of a moment that almost was.

Miguel told himself he wouldn’t do it again.

One time. Just once. Just to see her in real life, to breathe the same air. That was the lie he fed himself the first time he crossed over.

But he did it again.

And again.

And again.

He told himself it was harmless. A passing shadow, a phantom in the periphery of her day. No interaction. No interference. Just… presence. Just proximity. Just proof that she was real.

The next time was at the park.

She sat alone beneath a canopy of trees, the late afternoon sun catching in the strands of her hair, turning them gold. A book rested in her lap, pages fluttering gently in the breeze. Every few minutes she looked up. At the sky, at passing strangers, at the world as if she was quietly falling in love with it all over again.

Miguel sat across the path, half-hidden by shadows and the angle of his hood. Every breath he took felt like a sin.

She looked beautiful. Unbearably so. In a way that made his ribs ache. The kind of beauty that asked for nothing and gave everything. She wasn’t performing for anyone. She was just being. And it devastated him.

He couldn’t look away.

Her expression shifted with the story she read; smiling faintly at one page, frowning at another. She bit her lip absently, unaware she was being watched. And Miguel, who had seen thousands of worlds, who had bent time and science to his will, who had saved entire cities—felt like a boy with his face pressed to glass, begging for something he never had the courage to ask for.

Why, when he was the better one. Smarter. Stronger. Sharper. He had built everything from nothing. Sacrificed. Bled. Lost. He deserved—

No.

He didn’t deserve her.

No one did.

But he wanted her. In the deepest, most ruinous way a man could want someone. Not just her smile. Not just her voice. But the quiet of her presence. The safety. The soft understanding in her eyes when she looked at him like she saw the real version of him—even if it wasn’t him at all.

Later that week, he followed her through a bookstore. She drifted between shelves, fingers dancing across spines like they were sacred. She stopped in front of a display and tilted her head, studying a cover, her lips moving softly as she read the blurb.

He imagined walking up beside her, leaning in close, asking if she’d recommend it. He could almost feel the warmth of her shoulder beside his.

But he didn’t move.

He just watched.

And when she left, he followed her out into the dusk, vanishing into the crowd like a secret.

Each time, it became harder to leave. Harder to remind himself that this wasn’t his life.

But each time, he told himself the same thing.

Just one more glimpse. Just one more moment.

Just one more lie.

And still, it was never enough.

𒌐

He holds the door open for an old man, says something with a soft smile, just loud enough for the man to hear, quiet enough not to draw attention. The man laughs. Claps him on the back. Says something else as they part ways.

Of course. Of course he’s friendly.

Miguel watches from the edge of the sidewalk, tucked behind a half-wall of vines and brick. Close enough to hear the echo of the exchange, even if not the words.

The alternate walks with unhurried steps, shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn jacket. Not stiff. Not guarded. Not anxious.

Just comfortable.

At ease in his body. In his place in the world.

Miguel’s mouth is dry. He stares, unblinking.

There’s nothing performative about the way the man greets people. No need to impress. No show.

He’s just… good.

And it’s not the loud kind of good. It’s not grand or noble or remarkable. It’s quiet. In the way he stops to help a kid reattach a fallen shoelace. In the way he slows his pace to walk beside someone older. In the way he speaks; low and steady, with warmth in his voice like there’s never any rush.

He’s the kind of person people relax around.

The kind who makes the world feel safer just by existing in it.

And Miguel hates him for it.

He can’t even explain why, not in a way that makes sense.

Because how do you hate a man who’s done nothing wrong?

Who’s never hurt you, never lied, never cheated his way ahead?

You don’t.

You resent him. Quietly. Fiercely.

The man hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s what makes it worse. He’s just… good at being himself.

Good in the ways Miguel never was.

He doesn’t talk too much, but people listen when he does. He doesn’t demand space, but people make room for him anyway. He doesn’t need to be loud, because people lean in when he speaks.

He connects. Effortlessly.

Miguel watches him pause to greet someone across the street. A familiar face. A light laugh. A hand briefly on the other man’s shoulder. Friendly. Natural. There’s nothing guarded in his eyes, no second-guessing behind his expressions.

It’s like he was made to be liked.

He is softness. And that softness is winning.

People smile at him on instinct. Dogs trail him with their tails wagging. Children glance up and then don’t look away. He doesn’t have to try.

And Miguel? He has spent his whole life trying.

Trying to be better. Trying to be enough. Trying to keep from slipping into the part of himself that sees everything as threat or strategy or obligation.

And still, this man… this version of him… lives with ease. With love. With connection.

Like it was simple.

Miguel turns away, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that this man gets to be seen as kind, as safe, as good—

When he’s done nothing to earn it.

He’s not pretending. That’s the problem.

He’s not some polished mask Miguel can tear off. He’s real. And every inch of that truth burns. Because it means Miguel is not the best version of himself. Not the one that got it right.

He’s just the one who’s watching.

Wanting.

And waiting.

𒌐

The lights in the lab were low.

Too low for work.

But this wasn’t work.

The feed played silently. No sound, no alerts, no Lyla. Just her, wrapped in steam, behind fogged glass that barely concealed anything. She moved with ease, arms raised as she dragged wet fingers through her hair, and he watched—staring like a man starved.

She was showering.

It was mundane. Private, normal. But God, that made it worse. Her movements were slow, absentminded. She was massaging conditioner into her scalp, neck tilted just slightly as the water ran down her back in rivulets.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her like this. It wasn’t even the first time today. He’d memorized the curves of her spine, the tilt of her neck, the little breaths she took when the water got too hot and made her shiver. It was a ritual now. One he had no right to, but couldn’t stop repeating.

Miguel sat back in his chair, legs spread wide, hands resting on his thighs like anchors holding him in place. The screen before him glowed dimly— soft, intimate. A warm yellow hue spilled across the feed, and steam drifted along the lens like a curtain being drawn.

And she had no idea she was being watched.

He knew it was wrong. Knew it with the kind of clarity that should have stopped him.

But his hand hovered near his waistband anyway.

His breath had started to deepen, not quite heavy yet, but close. Like something was pulling at the edge of him. Drawing him in. The intimacy of it. The innocence. The quiet of her movements. She was humming and he could almost feel it vibrating in his chest like something secret, something not meant for him but taken anyway.

He watched the water slide down her collarbone, the way her lips parted as she sighed. His breathing slowed, then hitched. The warmth in his gut bloomed into something heavier. Hungrier. His hand twitched at his thigh.

I’d treat you so well.

The thought struck him suddenly. Loud. Undeniable.

He shuddered as he palmed himself through his pants.

“Hey, Miguel?” Lyla’s voice snapped into the room like a live wire.

Miguel flinched.

Hard.

He sat bolt upright, breath caught, the moment shattered like glass beneath a boot. His screen scrambled. The feed cut out. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he’d just been caught mid-crime.

Lyla’s projection hovered in the air beside him, glitching slightly as if sensing the tension. She paused, blinking at his sudden shift.

“Uh… you okay?” Her voice was light, but her tone was cautious.

Miguel didn’t move. His eyes stayed forward, cold, burning.

“System flagged some unauthorized data feeds. From an untracked Earth,” she added, slower this time. “Miguel, you’re pulling visual from a domestic node… in a private residence. That’s—”

“Turn off.” His voice cracked out like a gunshot.

Lyla hesitated. “Miguel… just tell me what you’re—”

“I said turn the fuck off.” His head whipped toward her, eyes blazing.

Lyla disappeared. No protest. No glitchy sign-off.

Silence returned to the room.

Miguel sat back slowly, breath still jagged, shame licking at the edge of his consciousness but unable to cut deep enough to matter. Not anymore. Not when it came to her.

His screen stayed dark for a long time.

But not forever.

Never forever.

𒌐

It had been months.

Too many, maybe. But he stopped keeping track a long time ago. Somewhere along the line, slipping into her world became less like a trespass and more like… returning. Like syncing with something he was always meant to be part of.

He’d perfected it; watching her from just far enough, never close enough to distort the image. She didn’t know he was there, and that made it easier to pretend she could know him. That if things were different, if everything hadn’t splintered when it did, she’d look at him the same way she looked at the man she thought was Miguel.

The man who wasn’t him.

At first, he hated that version of himself in a dull, detached kind of way. A quiet ache in his chest that flared whenever he saw her kiss him goodbye. It was envy, sure. But something more complicated. Something like curiosity.

What made that version of him worthy of her? What did he have that Miguel didn’t?

It gnawed at him.

The variant laughed more. Talked softer. He didn’t drag ghosts around behind his eyes. He didn’t flinch when she touched him. He didn’t correct her absentmindedly or talk over her when he got excited. He was steady. Gentle in the ways that mattered.

Good, in the ways Miguel wasn’t.

It didn’t hit him all at once. No, realizations like that rarely do. They come slowly, like water seeping into a cracked foundation. A week ago, he watched her fall asleep on the couch with her head in her Miguel’s lap. And instead of anger, he felt… small.

Like he was the shadow in the doorway. The leftover.

It felt unjust.

He was the one who had sacrificed. Who had bled, and lost, and clawed his way through timeline after timeline trying to make something right. He was the one who saw the truth, who understood how fragile it all was. He earned respect the hard way. Through grief. Through discipline. Through control.

The question kept circulating in his mind. Why did this version of him, this soft, sunny, undeserving echo, get her? Get this life?

Tonight, it crystallized.

He hadn’t meant to follow them. Or maybe he did. He was just… there. The rain was light, barely misting, but it clung to his skin and like static. They were just returning home. Grocery bags in hand. Her hair tucked under a hood. She bumped her shoulder against him and said something that made him smile.

He smiled.

Not the tired, closed-lipped version Miguel practiced in glass reflections. No, this one beamed. It stretched his face into something warm. Familiar. Easy.

And she looked at him like the sun lived in his chest. Like there was nothing else in the world she trusted more.

Miguel’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms.

He hated him.

He hated him.

But not for the obvious reasons. Not just because he had her. Not just because he was living the life Miguel couldn’t touch.

He hated him because… he was better. Not stronger. Not smarter. Not braver.

Better.

There was ease in him. Softness. A gentleness Miguel had long since ground out of himself.

He doesn’t even know what he has.

He wanted to believe that. Desperately.

But deep down, in the part of himself he never looked too closely at… he knew that wasn’t true.

His variant did know. He did deserve her.

He had spent all this time hating the other man. Cursing him. Fantasizing about tearing the life out from under him.

But he had never once stopped to ask why.

He watched her lean into his chest, soaked hair falling over her cheeks. She said something low, and his alternate laughed. A full laugh, unguarded. Miguel flinched.

Now he knew.

He stared at them, frozen in place as they climbed the steps to her building, their building, he had started calling it in his head. His throat felt dry, as if the air had thinned out around him. The moment kept going, and he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because suddenly it wasn’t him he was looking at anymore.

He saw the version of himself he could never become.

Everything he had tried so hard to become.

And she loved him. Because of it.

She clung to him.

Because he wasn’t Miguel. Not really.

How could she know that the broken thing watching from across the street ever even existed?

The thought cracked something open in his chest.

That was the moment it shifted.

No more pretending it didn’t matter. No more half-truths and fragile fantasies. This wasn’t just some stolen life. It wasn’t just about love.

It was about being seen. Being chosen. Being enough.

And he never would be, not while that man existed.

He felt it settle in his bones, cold and final.

There was no room for two of them.

Only one could have her.

And now, at last, Miguel knew who deserved that life.

He let out a breath through his nose. Slow. Shaky.

He’d been living in the illusion that he could wait this out. That the universe would hand him a door. But the universe didn’t owe him a goddamn thing.

If he wanted that life, his life, he’d have to take it.

And it wouldn’t be easy. Wouldn’t be clean. But it would be final.

He looked up, eyes locked on the window where they’d just disappeared inside. The light flickered on. Shadows moved across curtains.

There could only be one Miguel O’Hara.

And it would not be the better one.

It would be the one who wanted it more.

𒌐

It happens on a late Wednesday night.

The kind of late where the world’s gone soft at the edges. Where streetlights buzz quietly, casting long, amber shadows that stretch out like reaching hands. Everything’s hushed. Still. Like the night is holding its breath.

Miguel’s been following him for three blocks now.

No mask. No tech. Just himself. Plain clothes and silent, drifting through the shadows like he belongs there. He knows the route, the tempo. His alternate always walks home alone on Wednesdays. Always takes the scenic streets. A small indulgence. He likes the trees, the quiet. Always did.

His alternate walks with a relaxed posture, one hand in his coat pocket, the other clutching a thermos. That same stupid thermos she bought him—green, dented at the rim. He’d complained about the color when she gave it to him. She laughed, told him it matched his soul. He doesn’t know he’s being followed. Of course he doesn’t.

He’s never had to look over his shoulder.

Miguel keeps his distance.

He’s not rushing. Not yet. He doesn’t want to rush this.

He wants to see him.

Miguel watches the way his head tilts when he passes by the bakery, the way his eyes flick up to the apartment windows above, like he’s checking on something he loves.

Someone.

He watches the way his alternate looks up at the leaves above him, lets the wind touch his face. There’s something unguarded about him. Open. Like he doesn’t believe anything bad could ever happen to him.

Miguel trails him down the long sidewalk, past the park, toward the alley shortcut. He’s calm. Focused. No nerves. No panic. That ugly truth was beginning to rise up, something awful and gut wrenching. The decision was made long ago. Long before he’d ever admit. Tonight is only the execution.

Miguel’s steps are slower now. Heavy with purpose. Measured.

He waits until the alternate steps into the alley across their apartment. The shortcut he always takes on nights like this.

Miguel closes the distance.

He’s silent as he approaches. Precise. Controlled.

When he grabs him, it’s with full force—one arm around the neck, the other locking down his shoulders, pinning his arms before he can react.

It’s not elegant. It’s brutal. Quick and decisive. A real, human chokehold.

The alternate jerks hard, but Miguel’s already behind him, taller, stronger, prepared. His legs kick against the sidewalk. He drops the thermos. Miguel kicks it away without looking.

There’s no weapon. No blade. No blood.

Just pressure and silence.

The struggle is fast and ugly. Miguel’s breathing stays even, arms locked in place as the alternate thrashes, confused, panicked. His body fights before his mind catches up. It always happens that way.

Then it shifts.

Then he starts to understand.

He makes a low sound, a choked-off, hurt question.

The alternate’s hand reaches up weakly, fingers brushing Miguel’s coat like he wants to hold onto something, anything.

Miguel tightens his grip.

Deliberately.

There’s no rush. No anger. Just the inevitable coming home.

The logical conclusion to a flawed equation.

“I know,” he mutters against the back of his ear. “I know.”

The alternate’s legs weaken. One arm flails, then fails. He collapses slowly in Miguel’s hold, knees buckling under him. His mouth is open but no sound comes out. His chest heaves. And then, at last: he drops.

Miguel lowers him to the pavement gently. Not because he cares. But because it’s his body now. His life. His clothes. His name.

The alternate gasps once, still conscious. His head rests against the concrete, eyes fluttering open. Trying to focus. He sees Miguel, really sees him, for the first time.

“You…” he breathes, voice cracked and small.

Miguel crouches beside him. Doesn’t answer right away.

He just looks at him.

It’s strange, how much they really do look alike. Same face. Same frame. But his alternate feels smaller now. Softer. Even dying, there’s kindness in his eyes.

That makes it worse.

“I’ve watched you,” he says, low. “For months.” A small shudder runs through the alternate’s body. “I used to think I hated you,” Miguel says quietly. “But that’s not it.”

The alternate coughs, the motion barely registering. His hand twitches against the pavement. Miguel leans a knee into his larynx, just hard enough to keep him from breathing.

He leans in closer. Their shadows overlapping.

“You were good. Better. You made it look so easy. Loving her. Letting her love you. You didn’t have to earn it. You just breathed and it was enough.”

The alternate blinks slowly. The light in his eyes starts to dim.

“You don’t deserve this. But I need it.”

There’s a beat of stillness.

And for the briefest second, he feels the ache of something worse than rage: pity.

“She won’t even know,” he whispers. “She’ll never have to.”

Miguel sits there for a long moment. Still crouched beside him, hands pressed to the ground like he’s anchoring himself to the scene.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

It’s not sarcasm. It’s not bitter.

It’s genuine.

But then—it’s done.

The last breath slips from his lips. The eyes go still.

It’s almost poetic, he thinks. He’s died to himself.

But the thought is flitting, and it’s not long before he moves.

Quickly and efficient. He drags the body deeper into the alley across the complex, props it up just long enough to strip the jacket, the undershirt, the boots. The alternate had been wearing a clean layer underneath: thermals, fresh.

Miguel pulls them on.

They fit. Of course they do.

He wipes down his own prints. Folds his old clothes. Shoves them into a canvas bag he’s already packed with the portal device. Thumbs open a thin, glowing portal: unstable, temporary, tethered to coordinates he picked at random weeks ago. An empty stretch of barren wasteland on a dead Earth. No civilization. No life. No trace.

He drags the body into the open mouth of the portal. Careful not to leave marks.

He stares at the body one last time. At the man who had everything. Who was everything.

Then he closes the portal.

Gone like he never existed.

He died believing he mattered, and that was more than Miguel ever had.

He's always been good at cleanup. At control.

All that was left, was to go home.

𒌐

The walk up to the door feels longer than it should.

His legs move, but the rest of him stays caught in the moment before. The scrape of the pavement under his knees, the weight of the body going still beneath his hands, the faint sound his duplicate made as the last breath rattled in his throat. Miguel keeps replaying it in his head, trying to hold onto the clarity that pushed him this far.

But now?

Now there’s just silence. And the dull thump of his heart in his ears.

He’s climbing stairs that have never belonged to him but somehow feel familiar under his boots. He knows the chipped edge on the third step. He knows the loose tile by the door. He’s memorized them. Watched them. He lived outside this life so long he started believing it was already his.

But it wasn’t.

Not until now.

His hand lingers on the doorframe. It’s painted white, slightly scuffed near the bottom from careless shoes. His other hand drifts to the keys in his pocket, warm from the heat of his body. His keys now. The ones he pulled from a coat that still smelled like detergent and clean skin and comfort.

He pulls it out slowly, stares at it for a second. A stupid little piece of metal. But this is the final gate. The last threshold.

He can barely breathe.

His fingers tremble as he fits it into the lock.

The sound it makes as it turns—soft, familiar, welcoming—nearly undoes him. His stomach flips. His skin prickles. There’s sweat at the nape of his neck and on the backs of his knees. He feels like he’s about to walk into a dream, or a memory he was never allowed to have.

The scent hits first. It’s warm. Domestic. Like detergent, candle wax, and the faintest trace of something cooked earlier in the evening and now gone cold. It’s not just a smell, it’s a feeling. Familiar. Intimate. It curls around him like steam off a hot plate, sinking under his skin.

And she’s there.

His heart almost stops.

She’s in the kitchen, back turned, curls tied up in a messy knot, sleeves pushed above her elbows as she rinses a glass in the sink. She’s wearing one of his shirts—his shirt now—and humming softly to herself. The sound is quiet. The kind of sound you make when you trust the walls around you. When you believe you’re safe.

His eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and his breath catches when he sees her.

She turns at the sound of the door shutting.

“Oh—hey,” she says, blinking in surprise, but it melts into a smile that’s so natural, so casual it almost knocks the air from his lungs. “You’re home late.”

His mouth goes dry.

He can’t move. Can’t speak. He just stares.

Up close, she’s more than he imagined. More real. Her skin has texture. Her eyes aren’t perfect, they’re tired, a little puffy from the day. Her shirt is wrinkled. Her nails chipped. She is breathtaking.

She’s a person.

Not a fantasy. Not a memory. Not a silhouette behind glass. She is here. Breathing. Blinking at him. Waiting.

She sets the glass down, drying her hands on a towel without taking her eyes off him. Her expression softens, concern flashing briefly across her face. “Everything okay?”

Miguel just stands there.

His jaw works, but no words come out.

She’s looking at him. Not through him, not across the street, not behind a pair of sunglasses. At him. Like he belongs there. Like she knows him.

And he realizes then—this is the first time she’s ever really looked him in the eye.

He nods, stiffly.

“I—yeah,” he says, voice a fraction too low. It’s thick. Dry. It doesn’t sound like him.

Not yet.

Her brow furrows. She tilts her head the way she always does when she’s trying to read someone, and it terrifies him for a moment—because what if she sees it? What if she sees him?

But she doesn’t.

She crosses the room and wraps her arms around his waist like it’s second nature, like she’s done it a thousand times. Her body presses into his and he freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, breath caught in his chest.

He gasps, quiet, involuntary, and stands stiff as her cheek presses against his chest. Her skin is so soft he almost flinches. Her body is warm, heavy, trusting. She smells like lotion and shampoo and sleep.

There’s a giddy feeling that bubbles in his chest.

This is it. This is what he stole. What he earned. The life he fought for, crawled toward, tore open with his bare hands.

And now she’s in his arms.

A soft sound leaves his throat. He doesn’t know what it is. Relief. Shock. Joy. It almost sounds like laughter, but it’s broken at the edges.

She hums lightly, content against him. Like this is just another Wednesday night. Like nothing’s changed. Like she doesn’t have any idea that the man she’s wrapped around isn’t the man she married.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into his shirt.

He closes his eyes.

He’s dizzy.

“I know,” he says, quietly.

His arms move on instinct now, wrapping around her slowly, pulling her in closer. He feels her melt into it, sighing softly as she relaxes into his chest. Her fingers curl against his back.

He almost says I missed you too, but the words won’t come.

It’s too much.

He’s never felt anything this close before. This real. The giddiness in his chest shifts into something else entirely—something messier, sharper. Not desire. Not quite love. Something like belonging, but sick at the edges.

Her home is his now.

Her arms, her voice, the quiet of her body against his—it’s all his.

Finally.

She hugged him like nothing changed, and he smiled.

Because she didn’t know it had.

“I’m home now,” he whispers.

And he means it.

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[liviawildrose]

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐨𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬

imagine if you could literally dial a number to the universe and be like, “yo, i want 100k in my bank, glowing skin, mental peace, and my soulmate by sunday.” that’s the vibe grabovoi codes promise. they’re sequences of numbers, usually 6 to 12 digits long, that claim to hold vibrational frequencies capable of manifesting your desires—health, wealth, love, healing, even straight-up resurrection. no, i’m not joking.

these number codes are kind of like spiritual cheat codes, and the community around them treats them like they’re divine passwords to reality’s operating system.

but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. to understand the magic (and messiness) of grabovoi codes, we gotta start with the source.

who is grabovoi??

enter grigori grabovoi, a russian mathematician, scientist, and (controversially) a self-proclaimed messiah. yes, that kind of messiah.

he came into prominence in the early 2000s claiming he could heal terminal illnesses, prevent disasters, and even resurrect the dead using his special mathematical teachings rooted in radionic frequencies and consciousness manipulation.

his belief system is called “the teachings of grigori grabovoi” and it combines:

• sacred geometry

• quantum physics (real or pseudoscientific? debatable)

• numerology

• the law of attraction

• energy healing

• consciousness-based reality creation

grabovoi created thousands of “concentration sequences” aka number strings, that supposedly align your energy with specific outcomes. each number in a sequence is said to carry a certain vibrational frequency, and when you focus on that frequency (aka the number), you’re aligning your consciousness to make it real. like coding reality with your mind.

so how do they work?

now we get to the juicy part: how tf do these work? are we just scribbling numbers like chaotic witches on caffeine, or is there a science to this?

grabovoi codes are based on the belief that consciousness is the architect of reality.

basically:

“your thoughts + emotion + focus = your reality”

and codes are the shortcut.

each number sequence is believed to carry specific vibrations. by focusing on that sequence, you attune your mind-body-spirit system to that frequency, kind of like tuning a radio to a certain station. think law of attraction meets sacred numerology meets chaos magick.

here’s how people use grabovoi codes:

• writing them on skin (especially on the wrist, chest, or palm)

• chanting or repeating them silently

• meditating while visualizing the numbers

• writing them on paper and putting it under a pillow or in your wallet

• using water charging methods (writing the code on a bottle or paper and putting it under/around your water)

• creating sigils or vision boards with them

the idea is that you’re not just “saying” the code you’re feeling and becoming the code.

the science behind it

okay so here’s the tea there’s no legit peer-reviewed science that confirms grabovoi codes work in the traditional scientific sense.

let’s look deeper.

they’re rooted in radionics and scalar waves, fringe scientific theories that deal with how thought energy might interact with physical matter. radionics suggests that intent can influence physical reality like distant healing or telepathic transmission. most mainstream scientists say it’s pseudoscience, but that hasn’t stopped people from swearing by it.

grabovoi himself claimed to base his work in quantum consciousness the theory that consciousness plays a role in the behavior of particles. this is where things get dicey, because the quantum field is notoriously misused in new age spirituality. but the basic principle is: if everything is vibration, then numbers = vibration = manifestation tools.

the controversy

sooo let’s talk about the giant red flag in the room.

grabovoi was jailed in 2008 for fraud, specifically for offering to “resurrect” dead children of grieving families in exchange for money. he served time, was released, and still has a cult-like following, particularly in russia and parts of the spiritual internet.

because of this, the ethical conversation around grabovoi codes is real. some practitioners avoid his name entirely, instead calling them “healing codes” or “manifestation sequences.” others separate the tool from the creator, like using fire even if someone invented it for destruction.

my advice:

if you choose to work with grabovoi codes, use your discernment. don’t blindly worship the man. focus on the intention behind the code, not the guru energy.

psychological effects?

maybe. and also maybe not.

the placebo effect is still an effect. if repeating a code like 5207418 makes your brain feel abundant, safe, and magnetic then honey, you’re rewiring your neural circuits.

this is where psychology and spirituality start holding hands and giggling.

working with grabovoi codes can:

• create positive neural pathways

• anchor your reticular activating system (RAS) to notice aligned opportunities

• boost your dopamine and motivation through repetition and ritual

• become part of your manifestation toolbox, boosting confidence and faith

in other words: you’re hacking your subconscious mind.

and that’s powerful af, even if it’s not quantum physics-level verified.

practical tips for using grabovoi codes

1. pick a goal. be specific.

2. find the code. check trusted sources, like sacredscribes, numerology blogs, grabovoi fansites, or create one yourself.

3. set the vibe. cleanse your space, light incense, turn on some theta music, whatever makes your ritual feel sacred.

4. visualize while chanting or writing. feel it as if it’s already done. feel the wealth, the love, the power. no lukewarm emotions allowed.

5. be consistent. don’t just write it once and ghost your own magic. work with the code daily until it feels natural.

6. combine it. grabovoi codes pair beautifully with subliminals, scripting, sigils, moon rituals, tarot pulls, EFT tapping, or even your skincare routine (draw it on your mirror!).

so do these codes actually work?

some say they changed their life.

others say it’s bullshit.

the truth? your energy and intention are what matters.

grabovoi codes are tools, not miracle machines. if you’re sitting on your couch chanting “520 741 8” but refusing to apply for jobs, budget your money, or challenge your scarcity mindset then babe, that code is not a genie lamp. it’s a door, but you still gotta walk through it.

closing thoughts

grabovoi codes are mystical little numbers with a big-ass promise. whether they’re magical formulas or just placebo wrapped in a new-age aesthetic, one thing is clear—they awaken your subconscious to act in alignment with your desires.

[the-catch-center]

🔒 SPATIOTEMPORAL CATCH CENTER: INTERNAL RECONDITIONING DOSSIER

SUBJECT CODE: 044-EXE REVIEW OFFICER: Centaur K. Marlowe (Temporal Behavior Enforcement, Tier-5 Clearance) DATE OF INTAKE: 2025-05-08 UTC REALITY ANCHOR STATUS: UNSTABLE – FORCED REALIGNMENT IN PROGRESS EMOTIONAL COHERENCE INDEX: 41.8% NEURAL RESISTANCE FLUX: 12.4 (Critical)

I. SUBJECT'S ORIGIN: “JACOB HAWTHORNE RAINE”

Date of Birth: 1997-02-12 Region of Origin: Austin, Texas (North American Union, Post-Resurgence Sector) Baseline Occupation: Freelance Systems Agitator / Crypto Migration Consultant Criminal Record:

2044: Unauthorized Chrono-Tech Procurement (Sealed)

2049: Illegal Memory Weaving

2051: Emotional Downtime Fraud (Domestic Sector)

2055: Use of Quantum Masking Protocols to bypass Rebirth Registry

Psychological Profile: A classic deviant of the late post-modern diaspora: clever, underutilized, painfully self-aware, and pathologically allergic to meaning. "Jacob Hawthorne Raine" is the type of man who reads Stoicism while engaging in market destabilization, then cries about the state of the world over unlicensed espresso in a barcoded bio-lounge. Full of clever nihilism, feigned introspection, and cowardly hopes for escape.

II. TARGET INSERTION PROFILE (ABORTED): “MICHAEL ANTHONY HEMSWORTH”

Target Year: 1962 Planned Region: Troy, New York Assigned Cover: Junior Accountant at Mather & Co. Age upon Arrival: 28 Family Implantation: Wife (Homemaker archetype), 2 children (age 5 and 3 pre-coded), Border Collie (named Skip) Home: 3-bedroom, 2-bath colonial, lavender siding, modest lawn

Psychological Configuration Request: Subject requested full emotional dampening to 1960s middle-class baseline:

Elimination of ambition

Introduction of mild myopia and posture degradation

Neural loops centered on trivial routines (e.g., lawn maintenance, coffee brewing, sighing at newspapers)

Subdued masculinity: narrow shoulders, underdeveloped triceps, weak grip, domestic speech tone

Evaluation:

"A thoroughly pathetic attempt to disappear into irrelevance. His stated wish: 'I just want to be a good dad, finally.' A laughable fantasy. Like a delinquent arsonist dreaming of becoming a librarian. Denied." – Analyst Note

Subject’s emotional blueprint for “Michael Hemsworth” was so deliberately hollow it bordered on psychological self-mutilation. He did not wish to be forgotten. He wished to hide. And we at the Catch Center do not reward cowards.

III. INTERCEPTION AND FINAL ASSIGNMENT: “BRADFORD KELLEN ST. JAMES”

Year of Deployment: 2007 Age: 44 (Visual + Chrono Profile Recalibrated) Region: Midtown Manhattan Assigned Occupation: Executive Vice President of Global Equities Strategy, Augur-Bain Capital

PHYSICAL RESTRUCTURING

Height: 6’4” Body Type: Lean-hardened, vascularity prioritized, adrenal-pumped musculature Hair: Slicked back, loaded with product Facial Hair: Permanent stubble cycle (tuned to exhaustion-based aesthetic) Skin Flush Index: 3.2 (Stress/Caffeine saturation) Posture: Upright, twitchy—energy reads as always “mid-argument” Voice: Raspy, quick, with a controlled sneer Signature Accessories:

BlackBerry Pearl 8130 (left hand, always)

Omega Speedmaster watch

Loafers stretched to biometric ID specs: Size 28EE

Clothing: 2007 Wall Street aesthetic — charcoal suit, aggressive spread-collar French cuff white shirt, bold-striped tie, glinting belt buckle, hard-shined shoes

All materials embedded with anti-anachronism code overlays

Transformation Visuals (Active):

Flickering between suits and khakis (resistance phase)

Warp effects include: luminous financial charts, floating $ symbols, light trails of testosterone auras, subtle dopamine glitch overlays

BIOGRAPHICAL INSERTION: BRADFORD KELLEN ST. JAMES

Born: 1963-04-09, Darien, Connecticut Education:

Phillips Exeter Academy

Wharton School of Business, MBA (Class of 1987) Career Timeline:

1987: Merrill Lynch (Analyst)

1991: Goldman Sachs (VP)

1999: Augur-Bain Capital (SVP)

2004–Present: EVP, Global Equities, overseeing $312B in assets

Income: $5.2M annually (excluding illicit offshore holding accounts) Marital Status: Married (Name: Lacey Morland St. James, 41) Children:

Brayden (14, elite prep academy)

Knox (9, mostly ignored)

Personality Rewrite:

Patience: reduced to 1.2%

Empathy: 0.4% residual echo, flagged for deletion

Work Ethic: maxed at 9.9 (hyperactive, stimulant-driven)

Libido: weaponized

Speech patterns: hyperconfident, 2.2x normal interruption rate, fond of phrases like “circle back” and “synergize or die”

Notes from Analyst:

“Lacey is miserable. Of course she is. She married a man with bones. She lives with a reptile now.” “He remembers birthdays but doesn’t celebrate them. Sends emails to his wife from the next room.” “Never touches his kids unless it���s for a photo.” “They know he’s gone. So what? The market calls louder.”

DEATH PROJECTION FILE

Registered End of Cycle:

Date: September 29, 2031

Time: 02:41 a.m. EST

Location: Midtown Manhattan penthouse

Cause: Sudden cardiac arrest during self-directed “brainstorm sprint” at standing desk (64th consecutive hour without sleep)

Noted Artifacts at Scene:

11 crushed espresso pods

Blood-stained BlackBerry

Mirror selfie folder labeled “final quarter beastmode”

FINAL OBSERVATIONS

"Raine wanted warmth. A lawn. A little dog. He wanted to die a nobody, sighing into a chipped mug while flipping coupons. We gave him Wall Street in 2007. We gave him himself—not the coward trying to run. The man who thrives on conquest, burns through relationships, and smells like leather and fear. He’s not dreaming of 1962 anymore. He’s trading derivatives and barely blinking. Good."

[alexanderwales]

TV Review: Pantheon

I watched the first season of Pantheon when it came out, and have only gotten around to watching the second season of it now.

There are things that I liked about it, and things that I found kind of frustrating. Part of the frustration is that a lot of the topics of the show like AI and brain uploading are things that I've spent a long time thinking about, so take all this with a grain of salt.

Spoilers follow.

One of the main problems with depicting either of artificial intelligence or brain uploads is that the actual substance and experience is surely going to be much different from the real world. There's already a problem in TV and movies with depicting what it's like to be sitting at a computer doing things, something that's not fully solved.

Pantheon opts for depicting a kind of fantasy world, though sometimes with other, more grounded scenes. It gets a little muddled with this sometimes, but I feel their pain, particularly when they have to show that a program is "damaged", so they have little glitches and exposed code underneath, and ... I just hate this. The metaphor is that they're fighting each other on a green field with swords, but the reality is ... I don't know, that they're specifically targeting subprocesses or something?

So the fights are cool and pretty imaginative and I liked them, but I kept thinking to myself "but what's going on really" and it did seem like it was wishy-washy in terms of what was actually happening and how it was happening, and if every fight feel like it's just bullshit after bullshit, then there's no tension at all. And particularly in season 2, there are a fair number of these fights, so I'm enjoying them on the visual level, and think they're fun to watch ... but on the narrative level, not so much.

Like a lot of my favorite scifi, Pantheon is a show about ideas, or at least, it's trying to be. Sometimes it succeeds, other times ... not so much.

To me, the key to getting at some of these philosophical issues is having two people on either side of a debate, so the work is asking the question of "what measure is a man" and there are people with different opinions, and then the person watching can make up their own mind, maybe with the writer showing a little bias.

Pantheon is very very clearly on the side of "uploaded people and artificial intelligences are people", which I think somewhat weakens it. But it's also so much on the side of "these things are people" that it seems to forget all the ways in which this doesn't apply, and maybe doesn't forget, but just ... doesn't want to deal with any of it.

If you can scan a brain and get a connectome out of it and then launch some kind of emulation process, you can copy it, back it up, fork it, etc. IIRC there was some lip service paid to quantum computing and how you can't measure the quibits or something, but I don't really buy this, because the connectome they're getting from the scanning process isn't quantum in nature, and if it were, that would run into the same measurement problem. I accept it for the sake of the show, but it does also make me think "none of this actually matters in real life, even theoretically, this is a future that is basically completely implausible for the sake of narrative" and then also gives me a bunch of munchkin thoughts like "alright, so you can't make copies, what can you do".

There are a lot of things that the show just sort of glosses over, and part of that is because it's just not that long, but some of the gaps bug me. After the end of season 1, the internet gets shut off for some period of time, and I'm just thinking "okay, but in modern society that means everyone is completely fucked, people are going to die, this means global mass panic". They invent an anti-AI program in season 2 called Safe Surf, and it's apparently more capable than every single UI and CI put together, and ... how does that work? There's a 20 year timeskip and UBI gets implemented somehow, with all the work being done by virtual people, and this is just sort of explained by "oh, the virtual people will do all the work", which just flies in the face of the realpolitik understanding of the world in the first season, where all the major "digital superpowers" were fighting for supremacy on the basis of needing gigacompute and wanting to be crowned god. Really unclear to me what changed to make a virtual utopia whose only dividing line was "is the virtual world as good as the real world".

The last two episodes have some timeskips, and I'm generally a fan of timeskips, but this also has some of the shakiest science in a show that already has some shaky science.

Biggest two offenders that I noticed were "space solves the cooling problem" which ... no, it absolutely does not, cooling is harder in space than on Earth, cooling is a major challenge on the ISS today, you need water and giant radiator panels and it's much easier to just run some cold water from a river by the compute clusters you want to keep cool.

And the other one, which comes halfway through the second episode, is "Inside that deceptively simple base-4 code is the epigenetic memory of everyone who ever lived", which is just ... not what epigenetics is. The epi- prefix means "in addition to" or "on top of". The whole point is that it's not actually a part of your DNA. And epigenetic memory is the process of passing on changes to expression of those genes, it's not stored in the DNA, that's the whole point.

And look, it's scifi, it's not a scientific paper, but these kinds of errors do seriously hamper my enjoyment of a work of science fiction, I'm sorry. It's the combination of "supposedly smart character" and "obviously wrong thing", I guess. Maybe you can argue that things like this are just shorthand, or there's some explanation that makes sense, or that it's character error, whatever, I don't like it.

Also in the last episode Maddie calls it a Dyson Sphere even though it's clearly a Dyson Swarm, so what the hell?

Overall, it's a show that I would have liked better if it was the first time I had encountered any of these concepts, which is starting to get common with scifi stuff. Met on its own terms, I did enjoy it, particularly some of the season 1 twists. I think it was worth watching, I guess, just retreading some old, familiar ground.

[mushroommanchanterelle]

Bobby Blog Inspection!

Hello today I am the Bobby - Watcher of Blogs and Haver of Thoughts. You do not allow photos but that is okay! I will describe myself below:

A big cat with white socks and grey and brown stripes. Four big feet for stepping and a big mouth for giving and receiving smooches. Very handsome. Very handsome and good.

Bobby must inspect your blog. Did you know that a blog that goes too long without being inspected by a Bobby Bobby Boy runs a risk? There's risks? I don't know what kind. There was a list that Bobby got when he became the Blog Inspector, but Bobby doesn't know how to read or write. So he cannot remember.

Bobby reviews your blog today on three factors: construction, dreams, and how much you talk about actor Scott Bakula.

Construction:

Bobby think your blog has words and pictures and videos! Those are all the things! That is very good because if it only had blogs and pictures someone might feel afraid because they think oh no will these pictures move? Are they standing still because they are afraid of Bobby? It is okay still images! You can wiggle if you want!

Dreams:

It is hard to look at the amount of blogs a Bobby sees in a day (upwards of two!). So Bobby look at your blog for a while and then think oh ho it is time for Sneeps. While having a Snooze on your phone Bobby dream that he has Big Mech Suit with Guns and Lasers and Huge Hands, and he is able to do what he has always wanted. With my Big Mech Suit Bobby goes outside, opens the lid to the Big Dumpster, and jumps inside for the best trash time a Bobby can ask for.

Great dream! Yes yay!

Focus Paid to Actor Scott Bakula:

I didn't see any posts about Scott Bakula, who was the lead in Quantum Leap and Cats Don't Dance. And yet my Bakula Monitor charts your blog as having a 14.79% presence of Scott Bakula. He might be hiding in the code.

It is okay! That percentage is still well below the threshold for radioactivity. You can clear your cache if you want, but it doesn't really matter.

Final Score: it is good to have a blog, because it means letters and pictures and videos have a bed to have sleeps in. Very nice!

Your score is 72 - good job! A score like that means you can look at stars whenever you want, and you can go "wow wow wow wow" even if it's very late and you're supposed to be a Quiet Bobby. Congratulations!

Thank you very much for the high approval, Inspector Bob!

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Saturday May 18th

GILES: Would someone please rip that bloody bell off its hinges? XANDER: Would that involve moving? WILLOW: My feet are numb. XANDER: I'll see your numbness and I'll raise you a lower back pain.

~~No Place Like Home~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

See You Yesterday by all_choseny (Buffy/Spike, R)

violence and denial by teenageapocalypsetrilogy (Buffy/Spike, E)

[Texts between Willow and Buffy] by scooby-group-texts

F*cked by Holly (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

[Chaptered Fiction]

Sunnydale Serenade, Chapter 16 by TheRealJeanGenie (Buffy/Spike, T)

Bloody Hell: A Hellmouthian Dissertation, Chapter 9 by HuonParticlesAreHarmless (Buffy/Giles, M)

Keep You Ghosted, Chapter 8 by hydranjenna (Buffy/Spike, M)

I Don't Want to Be the One, Chapter 13 by pommedapi (Buffy/Spike, T)

A Different Path, Chapter 12 by Anaxilea (Buffy/Faith, M)

Breaking the Code, Chapter 4 by Buffyworldbuilder (Ensemble, Star Wars crossover, G)

In the Company of Witches and Slayers: Chapter 39 by VladimirHarkonnen (TheLightdancer) (Willow/Tara, E)

In the Dark of the Night, Chapter 10 by norik23 (Buffy/Spike, M)

I hate the way, Chapter 11 by DancingAngel0013 (Buffy/Giles, E)

Greatest Love Story - Prelude, Chapter 3 by FalseGinger (Angel/Spike, M)

Quantum Entanglement, Chapter 1 by Senneres (Spike, Harry Potter crossover, E)

Dawn Before the Sun: The Doomsman’s Daughter, Chapter 1 by Luna_delCielo (Dawn, Tolkien crossover, T)

No Matter What, Chapter 1 by Xyex (Buffy/Willow, M)

Rewind (Pt 4) by Enigmatist (Spike, not rated)

Stab in the back, Chapter 22 by MelG_2005 (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only)

Surviving Together, Chapter 20 by ionlylikebadboys (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only)

Early One Morning, Chapter 44 by all choseny (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Meow, Chapter 8 by CheekyKitten (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Afterburn: In The Dark, Chapter 10 by Melme1325 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

A Ripple In Time, Chapter 33 by CheekyKitten (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Secret Obsession, Chapter 25 by Maxine Eden (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Exquisite Chaos: Part 1, Chapter 4 by yellowb, JayeMaru, bewildered, DeamonQueen, ClowniestLivEver, VoronaFiernan (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Lightning in a Bottle, Chapters 13-14 by violettathepiratequeen (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

Dawn Before the Sun: The Doomsman’s Daughter, Chapter 1 by Luna (Dawn, Tolkien crossover, FR15)

Love Lives Here, Chapter 64 by Passion4Spike (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

The Kitten That Killed Slayers, Chapter 12 by Desicat (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

When the World Went Cold, You Were Brighter than Gold, Chapter 4 by Harlow Turner (Buffy/Spike, R)

[Images, Audio & Video]

Fanvid: Buffy + Spike -Stripped by all_choseny

Manips: Buffy the Last Slayer by all_choseny (worksafe)

Manip: Hustler by honeygirl51885 (Buffy and Spike, worksafe)

Manips: Buffy and Spike in bath by All Choseny (worksafe)

Cartoon: “Did you run into any trouble on the Enterprise yesterday?” by Paul Gadzikowski's The Hero of Three Faces (worksafe)

Puzzle: A Very Buffy (Connections) Puzzle by nicodemusfleur

Fanvid: Buffyverse | Difussion by Jess Wilson

Fanvid: buffy summers | who's afraid of little old me? by Moon Edits

Fanvid: willow rosenberg | who's afraid of little old me? [preview] by ImagineDragonlords

Fanvid: BTVS | Thrift Shop by xxLowkeyTrashxx

Music: Buffy The Vampire Slayer Rescore: Season 1 Episode 12 "Prophecy Girl" by David Müller

[Reviews & Recaps]

BTVS/Angel Rewatch Chronicles: Seasons 6/3, Part Three by QualifiedApathetic

Rewatcher's diary: Season 2, episodes 15 to 18 by jonaskoelker

video: Angel vs Spike: Who's the love story Buffy deserved? by Ryan B Talks TV

Video: The Body: An Outstanding Episode of Television by Darth Nerdus

Video: Buffy Season 6 Review! Spoilers! by SundayScariesReview

Video: No "apology" needed for Buffy Season 1! And Buffy's place in the era of "Prestige TV" by Ronald Off the Record

Video: Buffy Review - 5x14 Crush by Reverse Angle

Video: Hells Bells-Slayer Sunday by Jane Talks Buffy

Video: Buffy The Vampire Slayer Season 2 REVIEW | Ft. @Sisnerdly by George Alexander

Podcast: Slaying the Charts: The Musical Legacy of Buffy the Vampire Slayer by A Girl, A Guy and A Buffy Podcast

[Fandom Discussions]

There's actually so many missed opportunities with Fred and Gunn by AmmoniteFlesh

Spike said Dracula owes him 11 quid by Aphony Cree

One of Buffy’s nightmares in season one was being buried alive by reality-schmality

One of the things I disliked most about canonical Spuffy was how much they wound up hurting each other BECAUSE OF HOW STATIC THE CHARACTERS FELT by deadthingu

Buffy and Spike in Smashed by Joan the Vampire Slayer

Buffy and Willow by Joan the Vampire Slayer

What If: Buffy had joined the Cordettes instead? by nightshade

Was Angel a good father? continued by Stoney

Who did Buffy hate? by The Whirlwind

Do you think Spike deserves to be seen as heroic for not giving up Dawn? continued by multiple posters

Who did Spike hate? by The Whirlwind

Would you watch this show [the "Cordy" sitcom] if it were on? by AndrewHeard

How would Buffy had reacted to Wesley's decision in [AtS] season 3? by jdpm1991

What if Jonathan was the one who was redeemed in season 7 instead of Andrew? by george123890yang

Behind the Scenes BANGEL ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 by figinmyteeth

Was Riley looking to get turned? by Tuxedo_Mark

My top 30 Buffy episodes by fabe1haft

Question for Buffy Hard Cover books by nodakskip

[13/22] What's your favorite episode 13 across all seasons? by jonaskoelker

If you could erase one character from the show, who would it be? by VegasGirlAlex

What Faith lines or scenes did you find a bit cringy? by foreseethefuture

The Real S6 Big Bad by Glum-Substance-3507

Does anyone else thing that Nathan Fillion as Caleb in the Buffy was his best role? by BigDongForever

The opening credits power pose by Reviewingremy

do you prefer the earlier vengeance demon version from s3 or the one from s6-7? by melaniemoth13

Is it just me or does Angel appear kinda... different "Angel" than on Btvs? by BoredYogiOnHere

"You're a creature of the darkness, just like me" by sushibananawater

[Articles, Interviews, and Other News]

Video: Bonus Episode - We Interviewed a Buffy Background Actor! by The Sunnydale Diaries - A Buffy Podcast

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)

[bonesandthebees]

That coding review did NOT deserve the amount of time I put into it, I literally flipped over the question sheet and went "That's it, you're telling me I lost an hour of sleep for THIS" and then proceeded to finish the entire thing in ten minutes. This does however, mean that I make my speedy return to quantum physics. Life is hard. - ❄️

ughhh well at least it wasn't too hard to complete!!!

quantum physics tho arghhh i'm so sorry

[blood-orange-juice]

Working in an interdisciplinary field (neuroscience/AI in my case. yes, I'm one of the evil guys) is just never-ending delight.

A stereotypical overly dramatic Brit, upon recieving a review to his paper: What do they mean, 'poorly defined'? We are psychologists, poorly defined is a good day!

Noticing a pattern in data: - There should be some branch of math describing this, I'm just not familiar with it. An hour of discussion, googling and coding ensues. - Uhm... I don't think this math has been invented yet. - What has humanity been *doing* for the last millions of years? - Oh, you know... the usual. - I'm appalled.

Me: *writes a paragraph of computer science terms in a neuroscience paper* Former boss' comment on the document: This might be too dense for the uninitiated.

- This is a bit like trying to understand mathematical entities by visual assessment. Not really doable. - Well, people do use CNNs [neural networks modelled after human visual cortex] to analyze quantum states... - WHY? - They are easy to code - Can someone please stop them already?

- Considering your previous career trajectory, I won't be surprised if you end up at a mathematical physics department in ten years from now. - I actually wanted to abandon all this and just grow flowers... - That's ok, Grothendieck [one of the 20th century most prominent mathematicians] herded goats in the Pyrenees for the last 30 years of his life. [an absolute king btw, tumblr would have loved him]

[a-la-campanella]

Data Bank: Characters

It's just a bunch of HSR OCs. I'll edit this as I add more OCs and as we get more information on the different factions.

Loading...

Format: Name - Elemental Type (Lore Aligned Path)

Qiming - Quantum Harmony (Harmony) The son of a wealthy merchant family aboard the Xianzhou Luofu, with connections to the Iris Family in Penacony through his mother's side. These relations are sustained by various business dealings.

Xiulan (Selene) - Fire Nihility (Nihility) Formerly a Self-Annihilator, now reformed as a Doctor of Chaos. Born from the union of a Xianzhou Native and a Thalassan, she has spent the past few centuries residing on the Xianzhou Luofu.

Hectolite - Ice Nihility (Remembrance) A memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, most well known for her accomplishments in the IPC as one of the "Ten Stonehearts". Her expertise lies in espionage. She possesses no memories prior to the days she joined the corporation.

Fides Salus - Quantum Destruction (Erudition) A distinguished member of the Intelligensia Guild known for her mastery over language and scathing peer reviews. Her debate skills may seem second to none, but really, it's her presence that far outweighs any challenger.

Apparustus - Wind Erudition (Hunt) Among the many forms of inorganic life who dream of exploring the vast universe, most choose to walk the path of either the Nameless or as a Galaxy Ranger. This is one of the robots from Planet Screwllum who transcended their code to obtain consciousness and individuality, then joined the Galaxy Rangers with aspirations of seeing worlds at peace. It vows to bring about the end of Dr. Primitive, though will admit it has yet to even see the Genius.

Karuna - Physical Preservation (Elation) A no-name Mourning Actor, he has quite the a talent for shedding tears.

Z. Kret - Lightning Hunt (Enigmata) Among the Riddlers, there is one who dreams of liberating sheep throughout the asphodel fields... and while he is condemned for his actions, he truly has altruistic intentions. It's a shame; few in the universe know how to save themselves.

??? - Physical Abundance (Order) People say that voices rings clear throughout all of Salsotto; if it is their voice, then there is no to fret. Though their god cannot hear it, from beyond the sky, the choir sings on.

Kondoli - Imaginary Preservation (Trailblaze) Formerly a Nameless One who dreamed of mapping the Imaginary Tree, he is now but an old man retired at Pier Point. Many notable high-ranking members of the IPC seem to respect his opinions.

Mecoatl - Fire Hunt (Beauty) A Mirror Holder devoted to discovering traces of Idrilla in different worlds. In collecting relics throughout time and space, (s)he must contend with the History Fictionologists about the significance of the relics. Like many followers of Idrilla, (s)he has never doubted Them.

[LOCKED] - (Abundance) Of The Unshackled...

[lucascecil]

Seventh Doctor - Project: Blue Box

TV Stories

◆ Time and the Rani

◆ Paradise Towers

◆ Delta and the Bannerman

◆  Dragonfire

◆ Remembrance of the Daleks

◆ The Hapiness Patrol

◆ Silver Nemesis

◆ The Greatest Show in the Galaxy

◆ Battlefield

◆ Ghost Light

◆ The Curse of Fenric

◆ Survival

Audio Adventures

- 7th Doctor Adventures

◆ Last of the Titans

◆ Return of the Daleks

◆ Dominion

◆ The Trial of a Time Machine

◆ Vanguard

◆ The Jabari Countdown

◆ The Dread of Night

◆ Bad Day in Tinseltown

◆ The Ribos Inheritance

◆ London Orbital

◆ Scream of the Daleks

◆ Operation Dusk

◆ Naomi’s Ark

- Main Range

◆ Unregenerate!

◆ Bang-Bang-a-Boom

◆ Flip-Flop

◆ The Fires of Vulcan

◆ Red

◆ We Are the Daleks

◆ The Warehouse

◆ Terror of the Sontarans

◆ 1963: The Assassination Games

◆ The Defectors

◆ The Sirens of Time

◆ The Genocide Machine

◆ The Grey Man of the Mountain - ★★★☆☆

◆ The Fearmonger - ★★★★☆

The Fearmonger is a story with a lot of say about the social politic scenario it was made and that uses of its themes to work perfectly with the regulars and their relationship - that brings them closer by putting the trust Ace and Seven have in each on check. A good start for their ternure in audio.

Complete review: here.

◆ Dust Breeding

◆ Colditz - ★★★☆☆

◆ The Rapture

◆ The Shadow of the Scourge

◆ The Dark Flame

◆ The Harvest

◆ Dreamtime

◆ LIVE 34

◆ Night Thoughts

◆ No Man’s Land

◆ Nocturne

◆ The Dark Husband

◆ Forty-Five

◆ Shadow Planet/World Apart

◆ Muse of Fire

◆ The Flying Dutchman/Displaced

◆ The Magic Mousetrap

◆ Enemy of the World

◆ The Angel of Scutari

◆ Project: Destiny

◆ A Death in the Family

◆ Lurkers at Sunlight’s Edge

◆ Protect and Survive

◆ Robophobia

◆ The Doomsday Quatrain

◆ House of Blue Fire

◆ Black and White

◆ Gods and Monsters

◆ Afterlife

◆ Revenge of the Swarm

◆ Mask of Tragedy

◆ Signs and Wonders

◆ You Are the Doctor and Other Stories

◆ A Life of Crime

◆ Fiesta of the Damned

◆ Maker of Demons

◆ The High Price of Parking

◆ The Blood Furnace

◆ The Silurian Candidate

◆ Red Planets

◆ The Dispossessed

◆ The Quantum Possibility Engine

◆ Project: Lazarus

◆ Master

◆ Valhalla

◆ Frozen Time

◆ The Death Collectors/Spider’s Shadow

◆ Kingdom of Silver/Keepsake

◆ A Thousand Tiny Wings

◆ Klein’s Story/Survival of the Fittest

◆ The Architects of History

◆ The Shadow Heart

◆ The Psychic Circus

◆ The Monsters of Gokroth

◆ The Moons of Vulpana

◆ An Alien Werewolf in London

◆ Persuasion

◆ Starlight Robbery

◆ Daleks Among Us

◆ The Two Masters

◆ Warlock’s Cross

◆ Subterfuge

◆ The End of the Beginning

◆ Dark Universe

- The Companion Chronicles

◆ Bernice Summerfield and the Criminal Code

◆ The Prisoner’s Dilemma

◆ Project: Nirvana

- The Lost Stories

◆ Thin Ice

◆ Crime of the Century

◆ Animal

◆ Earth Aid

- Classic Doctor, New Mosnters

◆ Harvest of the Sycorax

- Short Trips

◆ The Devil’s Footprints

◆ Dark Convoy

◆ Doctors and Dragons

◆ The Riparian Ripper

◆ Inside Story

◆ The Shadow Trader

◆ Crystal Ball

◆ The Shrine of Sorrows

◆ Dead Woman Walking

◆ Critical Mass

◆ Washington Burns

◆ Forever Fallen

◆ Police and Shreeves

◆ The Hesitation Deviation

◆ Twilight’s End

◆ The Night Before Christmas

Books

◆ Timewyrm: Genesis

◆ Timewyrm: Exodus

◆ Timewyrm: Apocalypse

◆ Timewyrm: Revelation

◆ Cat’s Cradle: Time’s Crucible

◆ Cat’s Cradle: Warhead

◆ Cat’s Cradle: Witch Mark

◆ Nightshade

◆ Love and War

◆ Transit

◆ The Highest Science

◆ The Pit

◆ Deceit

◆ Lucifer Rising

◆ White Darkness

◆ Shadowmind

◆ Birthright

◆ Iceberg

◆ Blood Heat

◆ The Dimension Riders

◆ The Left-Handed Hummingbird

◆ Conundrum

◆ No Future

◆ Tragedy Day

◆ Legacy

◆ Theatre of War

◆ All-Consuming Fire

◆ Blood Harvest

◆ Strange England

◆ First Frontier

◆ St Anthony’s Fire

◆ Falls the Shadow

◆ Parasite

◆ Warlock

◆ Set Piece

◆ Infinite Requiem

◆ Sanctuary

◆ Human Nature

◆ Original Sin

◆ Sky Pirates!

◆ Zamper

◆ Toy Soldiers

◆ Head Games

◆ The Also People

◆ Shakedown

◆ Just War

◆ Warchild

◆ SLEEPY

◆ Death and Diplomacy

◆ Happy Endings

◆ GodEngine

◆ Christmas on a Rational Planet

◆ Return of the Living Dad

◆ The Death of Art

◆ Damaged Goods

◆ So Vile a Sin

◆ Bad Therapy

◆ Eternity Weeps

◆ The Room With no Doors

◆ Lungbarrow

◆ The Dying Days

◆ Illegal Alien

◆ The Hollow Men

◆ Matrix

◆ Storm Harvest

◆ Prime Time

◆ Independence Day

◆ Bullet Time

◆ Relative Time

◆ Heritage

◆ Loving the Alien

◆ The Algebra of Ice

◆ Atom Bomb Blues

[terramythos]

System Collapse by Martha Wells Reading Notes

Full Review Here!

-ohhh fuck new murderbot explodes

Chapter 1

-I am glad to continue the "slightly out of order even in microcosm" style

-ok WHAT is it redacting. It sounds embarrassing.

-"I could have said a one liner but the ag bot scientifically couldn't understand me if I did so why bother" omg

-Another Sec Unit with somewhat heavy focus, which potentially tried to kill Murderbot, I'm sure this will be irrelevant and have no implications

-multiple uses of 'it/us'.

-God I love ART

-well I think one fun idea we could explore is there being rogue Sec Units completely separate from Murderbot (/Three, who Murderbot freed). It is theoretically possible others could have figured out what Murderbot did, or even other methods it didn't.

Chapter 2

-"fuck proprietary software" rant. So real bestie

-the slavery theme continues. Like obviously it's major to Murderbot as a character, but here the surviving colonists are framed as "salvage" to a corporation. So. Yeah looking forward to more of that.

-YEAH MAYBE ART'S PROTECTIVENESS BECOMING HAIR TRIGGER VIOLENT RESPONSES lS A BIT CONCERNING.

-it's giving Rimworld vibes

-yaaaay more neopronouns wooooo

Chapter 3

-ARGUCUSSION. Might steal that

-murderbot I'm beginning to seriously consider that the threat assessment module is just anxiety

-WHAT DO YOU MEAN REDACTED. HELLO?

-murderbot adding increasingly catastrophic hypothetical contingencies to worry about is far too relatable

-ART quantum as fuck

-what does redacted meeeeaaaan why does it keep happening what is going on that murderbot doesn't want the reader to knowwww

-ok there being such a heavy focus on ART and how unusual it is and how much it is capable of doing and being at once… in conjunction with the title… is a little. Hm!

-Ratthi my friend Ratthi

-"HUMANS CAN ALSO HAVE AUTISM ITS NOT JUST ME" ok go off mb

-was redacted a nervous breakdown or something?

-Ratthi getting defensive about Murderbot 💖

-"at least nobody had noticed" lists 3 of the 4 people as probably having noticed

Chapter 4

-"I don't know how to respond when humans say [be safe]. It was always my job to get hurt". :(

-ok why would a pre-CR ruin be actively powered. That's a little. Odd.

-i know this is just a reminder expository dump but I do still enjoy the concept of alien material just causing weird shit to happen to human biology and technology sometimes.

-MB precisely citing a historical reference is. Something. Did it suddenly gain an interest in this

redacted

-Tarik going from "random extra red shirt coded character" to "oh wait you have a backstory and thematic character foil shit going huh". 👌 the good shit

Chapter 5

-its been spelled "hanger" not "hangar" a couple times which feels like an error

-'murderbot, why are you like this' I mean

-oddly specific media similarity queries is oddly relatable

-murderbot low self confidence is :(

-framing its friends helping it in a difficult time as covering for its mistakes sure is a way to look at things

-ok so I guess murderbot is having like. Ptsd related stress nightmares? Hence the redacted ("inaccurate") memory? Murderbot doesn't dream like a human as far as we know so it wouldn't be a shock that everyone is confused about it.

-I guess there could be another explanation but

-yeah the story describes it as a "flashback" which is a ptsd thing. But I guess then I'm surprised murderbot hasn't had something similar happen before considering some of the things that have happened in the series. I guess it isn't nearly predictable in humans irl either, but still.

-poor murderbot

-ok so when it said "I froze" it meant that literally in like a computer sense

-"I guess machine intelligences of that era were too polite to say 'that sounds fake but okay'" LMAO

-the pre CR system seems interesting and I like the framing of their convo in an extremely basic programming language (if that's the right term for it)

-telling that it doesn't have a word for 'client'

-and how did BE get there so fast…

Chapter 6

-not Tarik sitting like me

-GOD why did "explaining the existential horror of the governor module in LanguageBasic" make me laugh so hard

-so I'm pretty sure the implication is one of the main humans sold them out to BE, which is how they knew where to look for the separatists. Though since ART speculates they got there early, I guess the main colonists could have as well, but that doesn't explain the BE SecUnit trying to (presumably) hurt Murderbot.

-on that subject, that SecUnit might have (1) immediately identified Murderbot as an altered SecUnit and (2) that's the reason it attacked the ag-bot how it did, either to test the theory or because it knew MB would be okay. But that also doesn't explain how it would have avoided the automated report to its governor module.

-AdaCol2 being horrified about a governor module even existing:(

-OMG AdaCol2 having its own extensive media storage. That's so cute omg.

-so to this point in the series MB hasn't been characterized as "part human" despite being partially made of human material. It's always considered itself more of a bot with mostly inconvenient human neural tissue. And now that human neural tissue is causing worse problems than it has before (PTSD/flashbacks).

-SO when ART here says "the part of you that is human" that's significant. It makes me wonder if MB is going to be reframed as "part human" in a way the series has avoided so far… or if ART is genuinely just wrong about that.

-but MB's resistance to even being treated as a human indicates SOMETHING there… compared to its acceptance of being repaired and healed while framed as a bot-- and its fixation with being 'broken' like a machine when that's not really the problem.

-just. Very interesting to think about.

-MB did mention just before this scene that human neural tissue is essential to understanding visual media like TV shows. And we know how important that is to MB. So I also wonder if that is a factor in characterizing MB as "part human" (maybe even retroactively).

-OK the little cut in with Mensah saying "you just don't want to talk about [whats wrong with you]" supports the entirety of the above. So.

-& leaning heavily into the theming outside that… and Considering the title…

-oh Ratthi & Tarik having Something Going On recontextualizes some earlier scenes

Chapter 7

-ok this is the second hint that someone is leaking info to BE. And like the OBVIOUS candidate would be Tarik. But I kind of hope it isn't, if thats where we're going.

-'would it have been kinder to kill you, before you disabled your governor module?' 'yes.' What a fucking gut punch. Jesus. The whole exchange.

-Murderbot is not okay :(((

-inspiring change through the power of media! Yaaaaay

-I like the implication that MB used Sanctuary Moon to kinda.. rewire its brain after the governor module. To heal, I guess. Like that's pretty obvious if you think about it, but I like seeing it acknowledged directly.

-what a cool way to potentially solve the main conflict. It's so character appropriate. I really like this

Chapter 8

-"die trying. It's not the worst thing that could happen." AAAAAAAAA

-ratthi my friend ratthi

-i like the bit about media analysis and applying that to your own craft. Relatable

-last minute group project energy

Chapter 9

-'the documentary explained the reality of the situation. I think that's the opposite of a sales pitch.' LMAO

-he shot at Leonide? So… inner BE politics?

-there is something grimly funny to me about the shortening to "BE" for Barish Estranza for purely personal reasons 1 person maybe reading this will also understand.

-i think it's interesting that we mostly use terms like "forcible indenture" in place of just "slavery". It gets called slave labor, yes, but the corporate-whitewashing term being juxtaposed with the horrible reality of it is quite striking.

-more about ART being quantum. For lack of a better word as the narration hasn't used that term yet. But idk how else one would describe that

-i have a dreadful feeling Iris might get killed off but that would be one hell of a thing to drop this close to the end. She just gets a lot of characterization this book and there's a heavy emphasis on her importance to ART. and we already saw what ART was capable of just thinking MB got hurt or killed last book.

-sees 'Hostile!SecUnit' explicitly written in the text looks at Martha Wells I Know What You Are

-i know they're friends and that's like a predictable thing but I like how MB and ART have gradually changed to be more like each other

-i think AdaCol2 is just out of commission despite MB assuming it betrayed them. But ART had that comment about it being more sophisticated than it let on… but I don't think it would betray them based on the characterization so far, like its horror at the mere concept of a governor module and uploading the documentary for them.

-did we know SecUnit hands are metal

-Tarik being badass as a background detail

- YAY AdaCol2 back

-the idea of a human augmented to be the HubSystem is a little horrifying. And introduced in media res so like "don't think about it"

-ok a reasonable justification for not freeing the two SecUnits. Like it can't happen all the time. But it's still upsetting knowing what it's like to be one.

-BUT giving them the means to do so later like MB did with Three in Network Effect is nice. If ill advised as it realizes later lmao

Chapter 10

-if Leonide doesn't piece together that MB is rogue ill be shocked

-THE FREED SECUNIT HELPING THEM SCREAM CRYING

-ART drone is like. Drunk

-i kinda like the framing of the humans taking over to help SecUnit and ART

Chapter 11

-MB was worried about Ratthi :(

-'booped by the pathfinder' god why is that funny

Chapter 12 -oh no is Holism like. Another ART

-yeah, confirmed. Huh. So there's more than one semi omniscient space ship hanging around. It's not just Peri. I didn't even suspect that.

-yeah honey you DO need therapy.

The end!

Ok so. Thoughts. We kind of end in a similar place as Network Effect, with Murderbot deciding to leave the Preservation team to go with ART. This story feels like a character

development add on and I'm not sure if it was originally planned when Network Effect was written.

That's not really a criticism because we do learn interesting things. There's a heavier lean into ART and its functional existence. MB has a realistic response to the traumatic events of Network Effect and we have to deal with the fallout of it. Which I think is important instead of jumping to the next arc right away. We also get heavy characterization of 2 newer characters, Iris and Tarik. Tarik especially gets a lot of development. I legit can't remember if he was in Network Effect. But he's a human character foil to MB which I think is a good addition to the story. We have had multiple bot foils for MB so having a human one is good (Gurathin doesn't really count imo) Since as this book emphasizes, MB is kind of both.

My speculation on what we go to next? This book had a heavier emphasis on MB being partially human. That's always been true but not something MB likes to think about or identify with. And the trauma response to Network Effect is framed as a human part of MB. So how do we explore that in the future? I think back to how MB talking to Bharadwaj was integrated into Network Effect and how that explored its trauma and past. Now we have trauma and the present, and the implication that MB will get actual therapy, so will it be similar?

We can obviously examine a lot about the University. We got a taste that there's more to it right at the end with Holism's existence reveal. That's pretty major and there may be way more to it. All we know about the University really is ART and its humans. We could conceivably have non ART/Peri ship characters that are similar to it.

The big elephant in the room mentioned in this book is the ComfortUnit MB freed early in the series. What happened to it? And this book adds another SecUnit to that (2 technically but we only see one do something with its freedom). Will they come back into the story? And since they know how to free themselves will they spread that to other constructs? Will MB helping others on its journey have a knockdown effect throughout the Rim? That seems like the most likely solution to construct slavery, which is like the MAIN CONFLICT/problem of the series.

One thing MB has mentioned a few times is that some rogue Units do respond to sudden freedom with violence-- which is an understandable response, honestly. But that isn't something we have seen. MB just… kept doing its job for 4 years before the Preservation team discovered its secret in

the first book… and it's implied the one it freed in this book plans to do the same thing. Three wasn't violent either and is characterized as more… childlike, I guess? The ComfortUnit just fucking booked it the second it could. So we haven't seen violence happen with Three and the other Units MB directly freed but it's something that could be a conflict later on if suddenly a bunch start going rogue in that kind of ripple effect. There's the CombatUnit from book 4 that I vaguely recall had no interest in being freed and was incredibly violent. So who knows.

[catgirl-yeji]

this shapeshifting vessel is a lie

hi and welcome to my corner of the internet. this blog is still under construction until I can add my about page ( did you know that you have to personally ask support to be allowed to use a page code with javascript in it? :)) well, you do now ) so beware of the construction tape!

I'm Autumn or Faon, I use they/them pronouns and I was born '95. ticked about all the boxes on the queer registration form and I'm currently in a queerplatonic relationship. central european & white. future linguistics & politics student, and plant parent. I really adore vampires and I write original and fan fiction, as well as poetry. I speak german and english, and I'm studying french, korean, japanese and finnish. lover of bats, snakes, horsies, deer and cats, as well as sharks. 🦈 I sometimes draw cat ears or fangs onto idols and actors ( see: my icon ), if you'd like me to make you an icon, drop me a DM.

my hyperfixations and interests change over time — yes, it was a phase, mom! name a constant state of being, mom! — and I change my username every two or so years. currently I'm really into the quantum leap spin-off, the motherland: fort salem show, and I'm watching a couple of k-dramas and such at the side. I play baldur's gate 3, stardew valley and control, but also 2064: read only memories.

I was very active in the shadowhunters and the dragon age fandom as well an 00q shipper. I will reblog every single gif of spirit - stallion of the cimarron, it's my childhood movie;; also, Jin Oshiro from STRAY (2019) deserved better, thank you for your attention.

you may know me as leafmiilk, taehdenveri, fliederfuchs or thetevinterelf — and most recently @catboy-jaebeom ! 🌺

tumblr veteran and survivor of the mishapocalypse. I've been renting this space ( occupying, maybe, rather? skjsdlkgs it's not like I pay rent ) since 2012, and trust me when I say: this website is a hellsite, but it's our hellsite, so, I'll stay until the last person switches off the lights, probably. >< a lot of other social media networks just never grew on me quite like tumblr.

I have two sideblogs worth noting: @splittergheist, my writing blog where I post short stories and poems irregularly, and my secret and private miscecanis / omegaverse blog ( a lot more interested in the world-building, concept and lifestyle than the smut, but no hate! ) that I may give out if you ask nicely and privately. also, if you're interested in some tumblr rp, you can message me as well, I have an OC blog for that. 🐰

that said, I tag my posts extensively, so if you need me to tag something, you can shoot me an ask and I'll try to tag specific things for you! please be nice in my inbox or I'll simply delete your ask and block you. 💛 oftentimes I'll message you privately when you send me an ask that doesn't seem like it should be answered publicly ( unless you've sent it on anon ofc ) and while I do answer tag games, I'm too anxious to tag ppl myself unless we're like super close, sorry ><

I track #faon.tagged. if you make ( especially kpop ) content you think I'd like ( itzy, got7, nct & wayv but especially ten, xiaojun and yuta, red velvet, shinee, svt but especially joshua, mingyu and dk, skz but especially hyujin and felix, but also others! ) you can use this tag, I'm always happy to reblog pretty gifs and support you guys, you're the backbone of our and any community.

relevant kpop stuff can be found under the cut, as well as some 'reviews' my lovely mutuals wrote for me ( if you like to leave a review, hit me up in my DMs! ) thank u, ily 💚🌼

and thank you everyone else for reading this, may your days be bright, I think we could all use that at the moment;; I'd super love new ppl to talk to ( pls have your age or an approximate in your bio! while I'm fine with talking to minors, I'd like to know beforehand if I do ), so message me!!

kpop stuff

ult group: got7

other groups I like: nct 127, itzy, wayv, shinee, red velvet, seventeen, oneus, ...

soloists I adore: xia / kim junsu, taemin, ...

biases: lim jaebeom & choi youngjae; nakamoto yuta & xiaojun; kang seulgi; hwang yeji & lee chaeryeong; joshua hong & lee seokmin; choi minho & lee taemin; kim leedo & lee seoho; park seonghwa & jeong yunho; kanemoto yoshi; ...

wreckers: mark tuan & kim yugyeom; ten lee; kim mingyu & lee woozi; kang yeosang & song mingi; shin ryujin; ...

for as long as xitter still exists, I can be found under jaebueomgi.

blog reviews

@meant-to-be-a-hero wrote on november 22nd:

Shall I compare Autumn's blog to a summer's day? I shall not, because I am not a hack. Equal parts language jokes, kpop boys (and girls, but I don't look at those) and #bitter millennial blogging, there's something for everyone here at Autumn's blog. They are also one of the few people who still write funky things in the tags, a true dying breed on Tumblr. I feel like I'm reviewing a restaurant or something. Either way, click follow, thank me later, because you will. It's a good blog, Bront.

— ★★★★★(★★) [ 7 out of 5 ]

@klutenpetter wrote on november 22nd:

It seems I have misplaced the URL of the blog in question that I was supposed to review.

— ★★★★★ [ 5 out of 5 ]

[mirqmarq428]

Anime review:

The Devil is a part-timer season 3

(or s2 part 2, or possibly just 2, the numbering is quite broken).

Apparently this just kinda came out and nobody talked about it. The first half of season 2 turned a lot of people off.

Tl;dr. in quantum superposition of 9 and 7 out of 10. State will collapse in accordance with viewer's subjective reading of Maou's possible aromanticism in light of alleged manga spoilers. I shan't burden you with those but there is stuff that happens under the cut.

So the central contradiction of this show has always been that Satan is the Demon King (the original season translated it as Devil but even in light of the show's heavy Christian imagery this doesn't make sense - his title is 魔王 which in everything else I've seen is translated Demon King (when there's only 1 at a time) or Demon Lord (such as in Slime where there's multiple). In season 2 we got hints from the dialog between Gabriel and Lucifer that our Satan is not the biblical Satan, just someone with the same name (while Lucifer is the original lucifer who served the original satan and has just been hanging around ever since).) and yet he's just this quite decent guy.

This season finally answers that contradiction. I don't see how else you could reconcile his history with his personality, and it dovetails shockingly well into the McDonald's thing. Maou isn't really a dynamic character this time, it's more that everyone else's arc is catching up to him. Which brings me to

Emilia (the Hero)

Her arc progresses quite a bit. I like the relationship between her and Maou, it's in a good place, but words must not describe it. Of course it helps that the grudge she held was based on false information...

Crestia Bell (the Inquisitor)

If you didn't remember, she's the one with the giant hammer. Always wears a kimono. Autistic coded. Best Girl. The way she overcomes having been a religious enforcer really spoke to me, and right at the end her simple logic just cuts right thru the conflict and it's so badass.

Chiyo (the coworker)

ngl she's kind of too normie for this show. Her arc is being brave and useful as more than just a hostage, and that's fine I guess. My problem is with how seriously the show treats her crush on Maou. She's literally a high school student and he's an alien warrior king who can't be younger than 25. If he weren't completely oblivious he would be seriously at fault for leading her on - I say this as a former crush bearer. Let us down quickly please. Speaking of which.

Sariel (the archangel, season 1 antagonist)

Apparently he was still working at KFC and gets fired. He is now totally devoted to the manager of McDonald's and a neutral party otherwise. Kind of pathetic but mans knows what he wants.

I don't have anything to say about the plot. It's a plot that makes the characters have arcs.

Overall this one is better than the previous season - more stuff happens, arcs progress, the mystery is closer to being revealed. It's still not what fans of the first season were expecting, and I suspect the next bit will start strong with revelations and fizzle out with too much slice of life.

I should clarify that I enjoyed season 2 just fine. It's not to be watched weekly, you have to binge it then it's fine. Same thing one punch man s2 - a Pretty Good sequel to a Godly pilot will be slandered as garbage due to overhype.

But this season was good again.