jamesiii3

[jamesiii3]

How to Return to Yourself Stop performing. Don't overgive. Choose peace over proving. Reclaim the parts you abandoned to be loved. Let it hurt. Feel it fully. Release it. Do your spiritual work. Forgive yourself for surviving in ways you had to. Try not to take anything personally. Zoom out. Remember who you were before they made you doubt it. Protect your energy like it’s sacred, because it is. Choose you... again and again.

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 017: "THE MORNING AFTER"

The sun rises over the Westside, casting long shadows on the debris-strewn streets. The Jam House stands silent, its facade scarred, windows shattered. The echoes of last night's chaos linger in the air, a haunting reminder of what transpired.

Inside, the stage is a battlefield. Nigel's mic lies abandoned, its cord tangled like a serpent. JP's red guitar rests against a toppled amp, strings snapped. Quentin's bass is propped up, one headphone dangling. Andrew's drumsticks are broken, scattered across the floor.

I sit in the corner, camera in hand, capturing the aftermath. Each click is a heartbeat, a testament to their defiance. The air is thick with dust and the scent of sweat and smoke. This place, once alive with music, now feels like a tomb.

Outside, the city moves on, unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the truth. But I saw it. I felt it. The monsters were real, and so was the courage of those who stood against them. They didn't run. They fought with every note, every beat.

I upload the photos to Cultures Interlude, each image a fragment of the story. I write, not just to remember, but to make others see. The world needs to know what happened here. They need to know about the punks who stood their ground.

As night falls, I light a candle on the stage, a solitary flame in the darkness. It's not much, but it's something. A beacon for those who fought, for those who will fight. The story isn't over. It's just beginning.

I close my laptop, the glow of the screen fading. Outside, the city sleeps, oblivious. But I know the truth. And as long as I have words, as long as I have a camera, I'll keep telling it. For them. For all of us.

End of File 017

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 015: THE BOYS IN THE BAND

By Sarah Baxter | Cultures Interlude Filed under: Personal, Punk, Survivors, Truth

I didn’t think I’d be writing this tonight.

I didn’t think I’d be alive to.

The city burned. Again. But this time—I saw who held the matches. And I saw who refused to let the fire take us.

I’m not in the band. But they’re mine. So this one’s for them.

For the boys in the band. The ones who never asked to be heroes, just wanted to play.

He’s loud. Relentless. Yells like it’s oxygen. Nigel’s my cousin—and the most annoying person I know. But I also know he’s never met his dad. His mom’s been in and out of rehab since we were ten. So yeah, he talks big. Acts bigger. But under all that? He’s just a kid who’s never been listened to. And maybe that’s why he shouts. Maybe that’s why I never tell him to stop.

JP used to pick his nose and call me “Sah-wah.” I babysat him once, gave him string cheese and wiped Kool-Aid off his chin. Now he plays guitar like it hurts to keep it in. Now I watch him and forget how to breathe. I didn’t mean to fall in love with him. I really didn’t. But the boy I used to chase through backyards turned out to be the one chasing pieces of me I didn’t know I’d dropped.

Q doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. He feels like a secret you want to protect. He’s got bruises no one talks about and a heart that still believes people are good. Sometimes I want to throw the world in a dumpster just for how it treats kids like him. But he keeps showing up. Keeps playing bass like it’s the only language he trusts. And I swear—when he locks in… the world moves different.

Drew’s the backbone. Not just of the band, but of the group. He’s not loud. Doesn’t smile unless it’s earned. But when he’s behind the kit? It’s like his bones know how to hold us up even when everything else falls apart. His life’s been hard. Too hard. But he’s still here. Still trying to make something that doesn’t suck. That’s what I respect most about him. He never stops trying to be better than what the world gave him.

I don’t play anything. I just see things. I keep moments like Polaroids in my brain. And last night? I saw Nigel scream into a mic like it would save him. I saw JP crack open. Quentin swing a bass like it was a lifeline. Andrew—steady, even in chaos. They didn’t save the night. Not exactly. But they refused to let it break them. And I got to witness that. That’s enough for me.

End Log. File 015: Archived. —Sarah Baxter

[jamesiii3]

📁 WESTSIDE FILE 014: “CUPCAKES + COCAINE”

A Malibu mansion. Music shakes the walls. Morgan drifts upstairs alone. Down the hall, teens make out, vanish into rooms. Morgan knocks on the bathroom—no answer. She opens it anyway. A girl glares over her shoulder. “Close the fucking door!” Morgan stammers an apology. Then sees Andrew. Holding a cupcake. Smirking.

Morgan leans back against the wall. Andrew steps closer. Offers the cupcake without saying a word. She takes it, eyes never leaving his. Slowly licks the icing like a dare. He stares. The door behind her flies open. The girl storms past, wiping her nose. Morgan turns to Andrew, deadpan: “I think she was doing coke.”

Their eyes lock again. Morgan lifts the cupcake. Andrew gently lowers her hand. Then kisses her. It’s sudden. Hungry. Real. The world disappears until— “Morgan!” She shoves Andrew into the bathroom, shuts the door. He disappears behind it just as Elliot arrives.

Elliot’s confused. Morgan’s calm. “I was just gonna use the bathroom.” “Someone’s in there.” She leans close, whispering: “I think they were doing coke.” Elliot lights up. “They got a line for one more?” He grabs the knob. Morgan panics. “Elliot—don’t.” In the mirror: Andrew’s reflection.

Elliot laughs, lets go. Andrew slams the door and locks it. Elliot jumps. Morgan forces a smile, sweat beading at her brow. “Let’s go back to the party.” He links arms with her. “Where’d you get a cupcake?” “The fridge.” She doesn’t look back.

Inside the bathroom: Andrew breathes hard. Opens the medicine cabinet. Empty. A fist pounds the door. “Come on, man—I’m gonna blow!” He doesn’t answer. Just stares at himself in the mirror. And laughs.

[jamesiii3]

🗂️ WESTSIDE FILE 013: "THE SUMMER I FELL IN LOVE WITH A ROCKSTAR"

📅 Posted: August 10, 2025

I didn’t know I was falling for him.

Not at first.

Not until JP strummed a song he didn’t even know was about me.

That summer, he wasn’t trying to be anything.

He just was.

Every missed chord, every sideways grin, every song played just for the garage walls.

Some songs are never played live.

Some summers never come back.

Secret Track #7 — ours.

Unreleased.

Unforgotten.

🖋️ Filed under: "First Loves."

✍️ — Sarah

[jamesiii3]

🗂️ WESTSIDE FILE 012: "PUNK BROTHAS 4EVER"

📅 Posted: August 3, 2025

(Recovered from Cultures Interlude archives.)

Found this in an old shoebox.

A Polaroid from the summer before everything changed.

Before anybody was watching.

Before the city shifted.

Just a cracked mic, a beat-up bass, and a dream too stubborn to die.

No rules. Just noise.

We weren’t just friends that summer — we became family.

PUNK BROTHAS 4EVER.

🖋️ Filed under: "Garage Days," "Summer Static," "First Noise."

🎶 Currently playing: "Songs for the Lost and Loud" (unreleased demo)

✍️ — Sarah

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 011: “THE GOODBYE”

📁 Unknown origin. Auto-published via failsafe key.

🕯️ Status: Not found. Not forgotten.

I left before sunrise. Took only what I could carry and everything I couldn’t burn. No car. No phone. No backup. Just the sound of wind through cracked glass and the city pretending it didn’t try to kill me.

I wasn’t brave. I was cornered. There’s a difference. But sometimes, cornered people bite back hard enough to leave a scar on the system.

If I make it out, I’ll write again. From somewhere they don’t own. Somewhere they forgot to poison.

Until then— you don’t need to find me. You just need to be louder than me.

I left the fire burning. It’s yours now. Georgina Miller. Westside File 011. Gone, not silent.

The first fire’s been lit. Now it’s time to see who picks up the match.

Next week— the kids of The Westside find their voice. And when they do?

It’s louder than the city can silence.

🕯️ WESTSIDE FILE 012: PUNKS Dropping soon.

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 010: “THE TRANSFER”

I’ve stripped the metadata. Encrypted the folder. Split the keys between you two. One of you was born to fight. The other was trained to follow. Now you both know the truth. I hope that’s enough.

The files include: – Footage from Wild Oak – O Corp blacksite locations – Ramel’s clearance log – Witness statements (redacted for safety) Keep it hidden. Keep it moving. If you sit on it too long, they’ll come knocking.

Don’t try to find me. If you do, you’ll lead them to me. And if they find me, you lose your only living witness. You’re both smarter than that. At least—I hope you are.

The truth isn’t a bomb. It’s a virus. Let it spread.

The files are moving.

If you’re reading this, you’re already part of it.

Save it. Share it. Let it mutate.

The truth isn’t a weapon you aim — it’s a virus you unleash.

Spread it before they bury it.

[jamesiii3]

What if a version of you from another universe showed up on your screen—scared, bleeding, and asking for help?

🗂️ JULIE/JULIA is an exclusive sci-fi comic set in a darker version of The Westside.

Subscribe to unlock it.

🔓 https://jamesthe3rd.substack.com

There are infinite Westsides. This is one of them.

[jamesiii3]

🚨 I really need help. Please read.

Last week, my parked car was hit. The other driver lied about what happened, and now their insurance company is denying responsibility. I drive full-time for Instacart. It’s how I survive. No car = no income. And right now, I can’t work.

I’ve done everything I can—talked to lawyers, contacted both insurance companies—but nothing’s moving fast enough.

The only way to get my car repaired is to pay my $1,000 deductible, plus a $110 towing fee. That’s $1,110 total.

I don’t have it. But I’m trying.

If you can donate, share, reblog, or just send good energy, it means more than I can explain. I’m not asking for luxury—just the chance to keep going.

Here’s my GoFundMe: https://gofund.me/516cc99c 🖤 Thank you. Truly.

[jamesiii3]

What do you when you’re left alone to pick up the pieces, but got no idea how?

No idea how it’ll all work out.

Really

Spiraling

Now.

Not to a version who’s stronger because of what life threw me, or the hand dealt me, praying for a sign, a direction.

Nothing to do when every move feels like the wrong move.

Lost in a world where no one will save, your own mind will have you blaming you. Pit you against you. Make you believe you were born to lose.

What do you do?

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 008: “QUIET ENOUGH TO HEAR MYSELF BREAK”

I’m writing this from a basement that smells like Pine-Sol and regrets.

The floor’s cold. The blanket’s old.

The walls are thin enough to hear Christopher pacing upstairs like the truth has teeth.

I’ve got a cracked rib, a stitched eyebrow, and half a flash drive full of answers.

Still hurts to blink.

But it hurts more not to.

He saved me.

That part’s real. Dragged me out with blood on his shirt and a badge still pinned to it.

I think that’s what haunts him most— That he wore the uniform while watching it all burn.

I told him he’d have to choose.

I didn’t think he’d choose me.

I hear things down here.

The water heater ticks like footsteps. Pipes groan like old ghosts. Once, I swore I heard my uncle’s voice say run.

But I didn’t run. Not yet.

Because even in the dark, the truth glows.

They think I’m quiet now. They think I’m buried. Done.

But I’m not done.

I’m reloading.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, I drop everything.

If they think silence means safety, they’ve never met someone like me.

Save this. Share it. Remember it. Because when the next file drops… it won’t be a whisper.

It’ll be a war cry.

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 007: “THE FOOTAGE”

Georgina Miller – Wednesday Entry Status: Scarred, hunted, not sorry.

I found it in a backup drive under an O Corp substation. Buried in a subfolder called “TRAINING MATERIAL.”

Funny name for a snuff film.

The video plays like it wants to forget itself. Glitchy. Bleeding at the edges.

But it’s clear enough to show my uncle on his knees. And Ramel lighting him up like a war crime.

He wasn’t alone.

One held him. One filmed. One gave the order.

Their faces are blurred by gas masks and guilt. But I know the way Ramel moves. Like power is owed to him.

And I know the way Christopher Davis didn’t look away.

He wasn’t alone.

I’ve copied the footage to three drives. Hidden them. Labeled them with fake names and fake birthdays.

I’ve told no one where they are. Not even the one person who tried to help.

Because this isn’t evidence anymore. It’s leverage. And leverage is the only thing keeping me alive.

If they kill me, this drops. If they catch me, this drops. If I disappear, this drops.

You want heroes?

Watch the tape.

Then tell me who the real monsters are.

If this file reaches you—don’t just read it. Share it. Screenshot it. Save it. Truth only dies when it’s buried.

And if you’ve seen the footage?

Don’t look away.

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 006: “THE THING UNDER THE FLOOR”

Georgina Miller – Tuesday Entry

Status: Still breathing. Somehow.

“They didn’t shred the file. They buried it. And forgot to kill the thing still breathing inside it.”

I broke into an O Corp substation.

No cameras. No lights. No guards. Just a keypad that hadn’t worked since the riots.

It smelled like old wires and wet teeth.

Most reporters want a quote. I wanted the truth.

I brought a flashlight, a taser, and a bottle of peroxide. In case I bled.

I always bleed.

They didn’t shred the file. They buried it.

Redacted names. Codenames like “SLG_13” and “GROWTH BEHAVIOR: STAGE 4.”

In one photo—

A man, or what was left of him, half-melted into the wall. Still alive. Still screaming.

I dropped the page. But I kept the footage.

Something moved behind the breaker boxes. Heavy. Slow.

Like it didn’t want to wake up too fast.

Like it remembered being punished for being loud.

I didn’t scream. But I ran.

And the door didn’t close fast enough. It left a mark.

I’m bandaged now. The footage is safe. But I hear it sometimes—that breathing.

In my head. In the vents.

O Corp called it an “aberration.”

I call it a survivor.

And survivors always find their way back to the surface.

If this file shakes you—

Good.

Because what’s coming Friday makes this look like a warm-up.

A cop goes on the run. A journalist disappears. And what they find inside O Corp?

It’s not just monsters anymore.

ARMORED & DANGEROUS drops Friday.

Until then, keep the vents sealed. And don’t go near the floorboards.

[jamesiii3]

WESTSIDE FILE 005: “THE FIRST ASK”

Georgina Miller, 2:13 AM.

Location: Unknown. Truth intact. Barely.

He was the last person I wanted to ask.

But the first one I trusted.

Thats how bad things had gotten.

I wore a wire.

Had names. Locations.

Tried to show him what O Corp was hiding.

He said I was chasing ghosts.

Maybe I was.

But ghosts don't drag people into black vans.

I told him about Ronnie.

About the van. The lockdown. The fire.

He nodded like he cared.

Then stared through me like I was glass.

Let it go, Georgina.

You ever hear a man say that and know “hes not talking to you”

hes trying to convince himself?

He didn't report me.

Didnt arrest me.

Didnt believe me.

That silence felt louder than the sirens that night.

I think about that conversation a lot.

The way he clenched his jaw.

The way he looked at the table instead of me.

And the way I left, pretending it didnt matter.

But it did.

Because back then, he was still wearing the badge like it meant something.

And I was already bleeding for the truth.

[jamesiii3]

Westside File 004: "ARMED & DANGEROUS"

I used to work for the man I’m now investigating.

That’s not irony. That’s a setup.

Lead reporter for O News—just another pretty face in the O Corp Network machine. Until I dug too deep.

Turns out O Corp isn’t just a network. It’s a monopoly with no ceiling. No leash. No conscience.

I pitched it as the day’s headline. They told me to report to the top floor. I didn’t go.

I walked out the front door instead. With the story. And a target on my back.

That night, a black sedan parked across the street.

Didn’t move for hours.

Next morning, two WSPD officers showed up at my door.

No warrant. No smiles.

Just questions about my “well-being.”

One of them stared too long at my bookshelf.

The other asked if I had family still living in The Westside.

I told them to get off my porch before I gave them a reason.

They didn’t laugh.

I haven’t slept since.

My uncle, Ronnie Miller, died the day of the City Hall attack.

Except officially… he didn’t.

No body. No report. No funeral.

I found the footage.

Ramel Jenkins—fire in his hands, no hesitation.

My uncle, tied to a chair in a basement O Corp won’t admit exists.

I watched him burn.

Watched him scream through the gag.

They called it containment.

I call it execution.

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe they’re not watching me.

Maybe that sedan was just a sedan.

But the knocking last night said otherwise.

If you’re reading this, I’ve either gone dark or burned out.

Same difference in The Westside.

They’ll say I was unstable.

They’ll say I pushed too far.

But the truth? I got too close.

To the fire. To the files. To the men who kill in clean suits.

They know I’m armed with the truth.

And they know the truth is dangerous.

[jamesiii3]

A collage I made of some photos I took of my girlfriend, yes she is a model for savagexfenty