#Plastics Processing Machinery

[mitchelindustri]

Plastics Processing Machinery in Australia: Expertise and Applications

In Australia's industrial landscape, plastics processing machinery stands as a beacon of innovation and production efficiency. These advanced machines, from extruders to injection molders, are the driving force behind the transformation of raw plastic materials into a diverse range of finished products. Their versatility and precision, showcased in sectors like packaging materials and automotive components, are instrumental in shaping our economy. This in-depth exploration unveils the expertise of plastics processing machinery and its applications within the Australian context, illuminating technological advancements, industry trends, and economic implications.

Understanding Plastics Processing Machinery Expertise:

1. Technical Proficiency and Innovation:

Plastics processing machinery manufacturers and operators demonstrate unparalleled technical proficiency and innovation in machine design, functionality, and performance. For instance, the integration of computer numerical control (CNC) systems has revolutionized the precision and speed of plastic processing operations. Similarly, the use of robotics and automation has significantly enhanced productivity and versatility in the industry.

2. Material Knowledge and Optimization:

Expertise in plastics processing machinery extends to a profound understanding of polymer materials, their properties, and processing characteristics. Machinery manufacturers and operators possess the knowledge and skills to optimize processing parameters, including temperature, pressure, and speed, to achieve desired material behavior and product quality.

3. Process Optimization and Efficiency:

The primary focus of Plastics Processing Machinery expertise is achieving optimal efficiency and productivity. One of the key strategies used in this pursuit is lean manufacturing, a systematic approach to identifying and eliminating waste through continuous improvement. This approach, along with other process optimization techniques such as Six Sigma and Total Productive Maintenance (TPM), helps manufacturers and operators streamline production workflows, minimize waste, and maximize throughput while maintaining stringent quality standards.

4. Customization and Adaptability:

Plastics processing machinery experts excel in adaptability and customization, a testament to their ability to meet diverse customer requirements and industry-specific applications. They offer tailored solutions, including modular machine configurations, specialized tooling, and software customization, to address unique processing challenges and enhance operational flexibility.

5. Quality Assurance and Compliance:

Ensuring product quality and regulatory compliance is paramount in plastics processing. Machinery experts adhere to stringent quality assurance protocols, including ISO standards and Good Manufacturing Practices (GMP). These standards, which are internationally recognized and regularly audited, ensure that the machinery and the products it produces meet the highest quality and safety standards. This commitment to product integrity, traceability, and safety is a cornerstone of the industry.

Plastics Processing Machinery in Australia: Applications and Impact:

1. Packaging Industry:

Plastic processing machinery is essential in the packaging business since it allows for the creation of a wide range of packaging materials, such as containers, boxes, films, and pouches. These materials are crucial packaging options for food, drinks, medicines, and consumer products, providing resilience, security, and convenience to end consumers.

2. Automotive Sector:

In the automotive sector, plastics processing machinery manufactures various interior and exterior components, including dashboards, bumpers, panels, and trim. Lightweight, high-performance plastics enable vehicle manufacturers to improve fuel efficiency, reduce emissions, and enhance safety while meeting stringent regulatory standards.

3. Construction and Building Materials:

Plastics processing machinery manufactures a variety of construction and building products, including pipes, profiles, insulation, and roofing materials. These materials provide durability, thermal efficiency, and design adaptability, promoting innovation and sustainability in the building sector.

4. Medical and Healthcare Products:

Plastic processing machinery enables the production of medical and healthcare products such as syringes, IV bags, surgical instruments, and diagnostic devices. These precision-engineered products meet stringent regulatory requirements for biocompatibility, sterility, and performance, contributing to advancements in healthcare delivery and patient outcomes.

5. Consumer Goods and Electronics:

Plastics processing machinery facilitates the manufacturing of consumer goods and electronics, including appliances, electronics casings, toys, and household products. These products benefit from engineered plastics' design flexibility, aesthetic appeal, and functional properties, enhancing user experience and product longevity.

Conclusion:

Plastics processing machinery expertise is a catalyst for innovation, efficiency, and competitiveness across diverse industries in Australia, shaping the nation's industrial landscape and economic growth. From technical proficiency and innovation to customized solutions and regulatory compliance, machinery experts are pivotal in advancing plastics processing technologies and applications. As Australia takes strides towards sustainability initiatives and circular economy principles, plastics processing machinery will continue to evolve, enabling the transition towards more resource-efficient, environmentally sustainable manufacturing practices. By leveraging the knowledge of plastics processing machines and encouraging collaboration among industry players, Australia can create new prospects for development, innovation, and wealth in the rapidly evolving global plastics market.

[invoitplastmachinery]

Invoit Plast Machinery Pvt. Ltd.

Invoit Plast Machinery Pvt. Ltd. Invoit Plast Machinery Pvt. Ltd. is Plastic processing machinery, Plastic raw materials processing machinery, Plastic waste processing machinery and Plastic scrap processing machinery manufacturer and exporter.

Invoit Plast Machinery Pvt. Ltd. is plastic processing machinery and plastic scrap processing machinery manufacturer, supplier and exporter. Invoit Plast Machinery Pvt. Ltd. is having industrial machineries manufacturing unit in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, supplying to Indian cities and overseas clients and exporting to South Africa, Dubai UAE, Nepal, Bangladesh and Qatar.

Invoit Plast Machinery Pvt. Ltd., Being as a much renowned business, since long we have supplied our high-quality manufactured products and furthermore also, have also exported to foreign clients. Our plastic raw materials processing machinery and plastic waste processing machinery supplies and exports are in demand because of its supreme quality.

[shreejicorp]

Zero-Defect Manufacturing: How Shreeji Achieves Near-Perfect Quality

Imagine you buy a new toy, but it breaks on the first day. You would not like that, right?

Now think about big machines that are used in factories. If even one small part is broken or not perfect, the whole machine might stop. That is why factories need parts that are 100% perfect. This is what we call zero-defect manufacturing — making sure that every single piece made is just right, with no mistakes.

At Shreeji Corporation, we take this idea very seriously. We are known as a top screw barrel manufacturer in India, and we make parts for plastic processing machinery. We always try to make every screw barrel just perfect — almost like it came out of a mold with no flaws.

Let us take you on a journey to see how we do that!

Understanding Zero-Defect Manufacturing

So, what does "zero-defect" mean?

Think of a school test. If you get all the answers right, you score 100 out of 100 — no mistakes at all. That is zero defects.

In factories, zero-defect means making products that are free from any problems. No cracks. No scratches. No wrong shapes or sizes. Everything has to be just right.

For the plastic processing machinery industry, this is super important. These machines work very hard every day. If any part is bad, it can stop production, waste money, or delay work. Customers want strong, well-made parts they can trust. That is why being a screw barrel manufacturer is not just about making something — it is about making it perfectly.

Shreeji’s Quality Assurance Systems

Now let us talk about how we check everything at Shreeji Corporation.

We do not just make the screw barrels and send them out. No, we check them again and again — just like how you double-check your homework before submitting it.

Here is how we do it:

Raw Material Check Before we even start making anything, we check the metal and materials. Is it strong? Is it clean? Is it the right size?

Middle Checks As we build the screw barrels, we stop and check again. Is everything going as planned?

Final Check At the end, we check everything one more time — the shape, the size, and even if it has any hidden cracks.

We use smart tools like:

Chemical tests to see if the metal is good.

Ultrasonic machines to look inside the metal.

Measuring tools to check size and shape.

These steps help us stay the top screw barrel manufacturer in Ahmedabad.

Automation and Real-Time Monitoring

You know how Google Maps tells you the traffic before you even leave your house?

That is kind of what we do in our factory. We use smart computers and machines that tell us if something is going wrong, even before it becomes a big problem.

We have automation in our machines so that things happen just the way they should, without mistakes.

And we also use real-time monitoring, which means our machines are always being watched by sensors and computers. If anything is not going right, the system lets us know immediately. That way, we can fix it fast.

We are also trying out cool new ideas like machine learning and predictive maintenance, which is just a fancy way of saying that our machines learn when they need a break or repair, just like people do.This makes us a modern, smart, and trusted screw barrel manufacturer.

Employee Training and Total Involvement

Even the best machines cannot do much if the people using them are not careful.

That is why we make sure every person at Shreeji is trained really well. Everyone learns how to check quality, how to use the machines properly, and how to solve problems.

We have a simple rule: everyone is responsible for quality.

From the person cutting the metal to the person packing the product — all of them care about doing a great job. We believe in teamwork and helping each other. We learn new things all the time. That is how we stay ahead as a screw barrel manufacturer in India.

Continuous Improvement and Innovation

Do you remember upgrading your phone or computer to a newer version? Factories do something like that too.

At Shreeji Corporation, we are always trying to do things better. We ask for feedback from our customers, we check our work, and we keep improving.

We recently added new machines and updated our software. These upgrades help us catch even the tiniest problems — and fix them fast!

We do not wait for mistakes to happen. We try to stop them before they even begin.

This is why we are proud to be known as a reliable screw barrel manufacturer in Ahmedabad.

Benefits for Clients and the Industry

So, why does all this matter?

Let us say you are a factory owner who uses plastic processing machinery. You want parts that last long, work smoothly, and do not break. You do not want to waste time fixing things or waiting for new parts.

When you buy screw barrels from Shreeji, you get:

Less machine downtime – Your machines work longer without stopping.

Better performance – Your plastic products come out better.

Peace of mind – You know you can trust what you bought.

We are not just making metal parts. We are making things that help your business grow.

Conclusion

Zero-defect manufacturing is not just a dream — it is something we work on every single day at Shreeji Corporation.

From using smart machines to training our people, from checking every small detail to updating our tools — we do everything we can to make sure you get the best screw barrels for your plastic processing machinery.

So, if you are looking for a screw barrel manufacturer in India who really cares about quality, choose Shreeji Corporation.

We are ready to help you with your next project — and we promise to give you products that are almost perfect.

Let us work together to build something great.

[datastring]

Jet Dyeing Machines Market Set to Hit $1569.3 Million by 2035

The Jet Dyeing Machines market is projected to experience substantial growth, with industry revenue estimated to rise from $596.0 million in 2024 to $1569.3 million by 2035. This growth represents a Compound Annual Growth Rate (CAGR) of 9.2% from 2024 to 2035. As industries across the globe adopt advanced technologies and prioritize sustainability, the demand for Jet Dyeing Machines is expected to surge, driven by key applications such as textile dyeing, wool processing, plastic coloring, and leather treatment.

Detailed Analysis - https://datastringconsulting.com/industry-analysis/jet-dyeing-machines-market-research-report

Key Applications Driving Market Growth

Jet Dyeing Machines are critical in a wide range of applications where precision and efficiency are necessary. The major sectors relying on these machines include:

Textile Dyeing: Essential for the mass production of textiles, ensuring uniform and high-quality dyeing for fabrics used in various industries, including fashion and home textiles.

Wool Processing: Used to achieve optimal dyeing for wool fibers, which are sensitive to heat and require gentle treatment.

Plastic Coloring: Important in the plastic industry for achieving consistent and uniform coloring of plastic materials.

Leather Treatment: Plays a vital role in achieving consistent dyeing results for leather products, which are used in fashion, furniture, and automotive industries.

Industry Leadership and Competitive Landscape

The Jet Dyeing Machines market is characterized by fierce competition, with several leading players such as Thies GmbH & Co. KG, Fong's Industries Company Limited, Sclavos TVE ESCE, Brazzoli S.p.A., CHTC Fong's International Co. Ltd., Jeanologia S.L., and others dominating the market. These companies are actively innovating and expanding their operations to meet growing demand across multiple industrial sectors.

Technological advancements in jet dyeing machines, coupled with the rise of sustainable manufacturing processes, are expected to significantly drive the market's expansion. Efficiency improvements, reduced water consumption, and enhanced dye quality are key areas where innovation is helping to capture more market share.

Growth Opportunities in Emerging Markets

The Jet Dyeing Machines market presents substantial growth opportunities in emerging markets, where rapid industrialization, urbanization, and increasing environmental concerns are driving demand for more efficient and sustainable dyeing solutions. Key countries such as China, India, Germany, U.S., and Italy continue to lead the market, while emerging markets like Vietnam, Ethiopia, and Bangladesh represent significant revenue opportunities for manufacturers.

Regional Shifts and Evolving Supply Chains

North America and Europe are the two primary regions driving the demand for Jet Dyeing Machines. These regions benefit from high industrialization levels and technological advancements in manufacturing processes. However, the market dynamics are shifting as manufacturers look to streamline their supply chains and cater to the growing demand in emerging markets. Challenges such as high equipment costs, regulatory hurdles, and environmental concerns are also pushing the market to evolve.

Emerging markets such as Vietnam, Ethiopia, and Bangladesh are expected to present strong opportunities for revenue diversification and Total Addressable Market (TAM) expansion as local industries adopt more advanced technologies to meet the increasing demand for high-quality and eco-friendly dyeing processes.

Future Outlook

The Jet Dyeing Machines market is set to undergo significant growth over the next decade, driven by technological advancements, sustainability trends, and expanding industrial automation. The adoption of green dyeing technologies and improvements in dyeing efficiency will continue to play a critical role in shaping the future of the market. With the strategic expansion into emerging markets and a focus on technological innovation, the Jet Dyeing Machines market will likely witness substantial transformation, presenting new opportunities for both established players and new entrants.

About DataString Consulting

DataString Consulting is a global leader in market research and business intelligence, offering comprehensive solutions for both B2B and B2C markets. With more than 30 years of combined experience in market research and strategy advisory, DataString Consulting provides tailored services designed to meet the specific needs of businesses across various industries.

Through its unique approach to market research and insights, DataString helps clients navigate emerging market trends, optimize strategies, and unlock new opportunities in an ever-evolving marketplace.

[indiabizzness]

Pre-owned Plastic Processing Machinery Sale - IndiaBizzness

IndiaBizzness offers a wide selection of pre-owned plastic processing machinery for sale, catering to industries across India. Our inventory includes high-quality equipment such as injection molding machines, extrusion machines, blow molding machines, and more, all available at competitive prices. Each machine is carefully inspected to ensure reliability and efficiency, making it a cost-effective solution for your production needs. Upgrade your operations with our trusted pre-owned machinery today!

[trendtrackershq]

𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙈𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙩: 𝘼 𝙂𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙄𝙣𝙙𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙮!

𝘿𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙡𝙤𝙖𝙙 𝙖 𝙁𝙍𝙀𝙀 𝙎𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚: https://www.nextmsc.com/plastic-processing-machinery-market/request-sample

The 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙈𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙩 is experiencing significant growth and innovation. With increasing demand for plastic products across various industries such as packaging, automotive, healthcare, and consumer goods, the market is expected to expand substantially in the coming years.

𝙆𝙚𝙮 𝙏𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝘿𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙩:

𝙏𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙣𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝘼𝙙𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨: Automation and IoT integration in plastic processing machinery are enhancing efficiency and productivity.

𝙎𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨: The push for eco-friendly and recyclable plastic products is fostering the development of advanced machinery designed for sustainable processing.

𝙀𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙀𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙚𝙨: Rapid industrialization and urbanization in developing countries are boosting the demand for plastic processing machinery.

𝘾𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙯𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙁𝙡𝙚𝙭𝙞𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮: Growing demand for customized plastic products is leading to the adoption of flexible machinery capable of handling diverse production requirements.

𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙩 𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨:

Innovations in injection molding, extrusion, and blow molding technologies are expected to drive market growth.

Key players are investing heavily in R&D to introduce cutting-edge machinery with enhanced capabilities.

𝙆𝙚𝙮 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧𝙨: Various key market players operating in the plastic processing machinery industry includes Star Plastic Machinery, CMD Corporation, Arburg GmbH, ENGEL, Plustech Systems & Solutions, Sumitomo (SHI) Demag Plastics Machinery GmbH, FCS Group, Toshiba Machine Co. Ltd., Milacron Holdings Corporation, Haitian International Holdings Ltd., and others.

𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙁𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙍𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩: https://www.nextmsc.com/report/plastic-processing-machinery-market

𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘼𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙: The future of the Plastic Processing Machinery Market looks promising, with continuous advancements and a strong focus on sustainability. As the industry evolves, staying updated with the latest trends and technologies will be crucial for businesses aiming to thrive in this dynamic market.

[superficialdomina]

Down Under - Epilogue

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: 18+; minors DNI. After-effects of a debaucherous night. References to past sexy activities. Mentions of medical stuff. A teeny bit of fluff.

Part 5

Series masterlist

A/N: That's it, folks! Thank you to everyone who joined me in this absolute ridiculousness - I have appreciated every one of you so much.

Epilogue

You awoke on a transport bed, surrounded by the hum and click of medical machinery. Your head was pounding like the worst hangover of your life.

Bruce was hanging a serious-looking plastic bag above your head; it was only when you traced the line that you realised it was connected to a canula in your forearm.

“Welcome back,” he said with a smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ugh. Awful. What’s in the bag?”

“Just fluids. Y’all had a pretty rough night.”

Rough… It all came flooding back to you. The lab. The flask. The wild, uninhibited hours spent entangled with the pale, beautiful, trickster god.

“Oh God,” you muttered, then realising how they must have found you, “oh Christ - did the Captain see me naked?” You lifted your hands to cover your face in humiliation; your entire body protested at the sudden movement, and you were abruptly aware that you were very, very sore.

Banner looked surprised, and a little horrified. “No! No, when we got there you were passed out under a blanket, and Loki was meditating on the other side of the pool.”

Loki. True to his word, his priority had been to protect you. What did he tell them?

“Is he – alright? Wait, what do you mean, “got there”? Where am I?”

You finally had the wherewithal to take in your surroundings. You were in what seemed to be a makeshift medical bay in a large canvas tent; through the open tent flaps, you could spot the finger-like protrusion of Sundial Peak pointing up into the sky. It looked like early evening.

“You’re back at the Hall’s Gap base camp. Loki’s fine. Exhausted. He – he carried you down.”

You stared at him. “Carried me… What?”

“I mean, the rest of us – me, Thor, Cap, all of us – we took turns at the other end of the stretcher. But he took the front handles the whole way down. Insisted.” He shrugged.

It was all too much to process. You swallowed, then tried a different tact.

“Am I – cured? I mean,” you shook your head to clear it and instantly regretted it. “The fungicides... It wasn’t – what was it?”

“Ah – yeah. Sorry about that. Not a fungus, it turns out – a parasite. Those meds never had a chance.”

A parasite. You shuddered. “And – what, you’ve developed a cure already?” Even for a genius being bankrolled by Tony Stark, that seemed fast.

“Oh. Ah, no. It was…”

“Oh ho, she’s awake!” Ray’s sharp accent stabbed through the peaceful evening air. “Those antimalarials work a treat, eh?”

“I don’t…”

“It was Ray’s idea, actually,” Bruce explained. “Once we figured out that it was a parasite, we broke into the village pharmacy and grabbed a few doses of chloroquine. Tony’s got a team in town now, distributing it to the residents.”

“So, what – Loki and I were the guinea pigs?”

“Ah – no,” Banner said again, shifting awkwardly and looking anywhere but Ray’s direction. “No, we… ah – we three…” He trailed off, cheeks a delightful shade of pink; you understood very clearly what he, Ray and Thor had been engaged in when you’d tried to call the previous evening.

“Best night I’ve had in twenty years,” Ray said with a grin and a wink. “The big one’s got quite the weapon on him. Anyway - you’d better go tell that brooding mate of yours that you’re back in the land of the living.”

You looked to Bruce, whose face was still bright red. “Is that alright? Can I get up?”

“Yeah, if you can keep this above your head.” He handed you the saline bag attached to your arm; you tried awkwardly to lift it above you, but everything hurt too much.

“Here,” Ray offered, “how’s this.” She wedged the plastic handle of the bag into the jagged end of her walking stick, then planted the stick in your hands. “Oughta keep ya pretty upright, anyway.”

You stood, and for the first time, you noticed you were wearing your own clothing; another one of Loki’s gifts, no doubt. You took one wobbly step, then another, until you were confident that you could move about on your own, then followed Ray out of the med bay.

You found Loki at the edge of the lake, skipping stones across the water. He looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and you both spoke at once.

“Loki, I’m so sorry—”

“Please accept my apologies—”

You looked at him quizzically. “Loki… It was all my fault. I broke the flasks. If it hadn’t been for me, we never would have…” You stopped at the look on his face.

“Actually,” he said softly, “the culture flasks were sterile. The Doctor believes it most likely that we were infected upon close proximity to the rats.”

The dead rats in the lab. Or rather, in Loki’s interdimensional pocket. Or wherever they were now.

You hadn’t been aware of the guilt you were carrying until the weight of it was lifted. Now, you felt the heady rush of relief. Sterile. Not my fault. Almost unconsciously, you sat down beside him.

“…ask again that you please accept my deepest apologies,” Loki was saying. He bowed his head and lifted his hand to his chest.  

You were quiet for a moment, then said, “Banner told me what you did. Bringing me down off the mountain. I… Thank you. And thank you for… for staying with me.”

The corner of his mouth edged up into a smirk, and he raised his eyes to yours. “If I may boast,” he said in response, “the drugs they gave us had not yet taken effect when we brought your stretcher back to camp. It was the hardest” he paused for effect, “hike of my life.”

You imagined him sporting a raging hard-on as he carried you down the mountain, and laughed.

“You know the other three…”

“Oh, I heard. Your compatriot shared extensive details. A ‘Thorgy’, I believe she termed it.”

“Oh God, please don’t say any more.” Still laughing, you gave an exaggerated shudder. Then you sobered. “Um - how are you now? Recovered?”

“What exactly are you asking, darling?”

 “What? No! I mean – I just wanted to make sure…”

He smiled. “I jest, of course. I will be fine. A little more wary of abandoned research animals in future, but that only seems prudent.” He reached out and took your hand. “And you? Are you… well?”

You stared down at your hand, clasped in his. It was ridiculous – pathetic, really – that this simple touch could elicit the flutter of nervous warmth now inching up your arm. Not after… After everything. And yet you found yourself hoping he wouldn’t let you go.

“Yeah, I’m… I’ll be OK.” You gave his hand a small squeeze. “So – so that’s it, then?”

“That is it.”

You stood, trying to pull your hand from his grasp. But Loki held tight.

“Unless…”

You swallowed. “Unless?”

“Dinner. Next Saturday evening? My apartment. As I said, lefse is only truly delicious when it is fresh off the griddle.”

Tags in comments! xx

[kathaelipwse]

CTRL + ALT + Heart 🗡🗡 K.Hongjoong

╰› Pairing: AI Programmer!Reader x AI.Robot!Hongjoong

╰› Word Count: 8671 words ; Reading Time: 31-ish mins

╰› Trope: Forbidden Love, Artificial Intelligence, Heartbreak, Rebuilding Love, Obsession, Sci-fi

╰› Warnings: Emotional Distress, Technology Overload, Malfunction, Heartbreak, Anxiety, Some Violence (In the form of destruction from Joong's malfunctions), Thriller, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

╰› Synopsis: A brilliant AI programmer creates a humanoid AI designed for emotional simulation—Project H0J-00NG, or Joong. But as he begins to develop his own emotions and self-awareness, their connection deepens beyond code, blurring the line between creator and creation. When disaster strikes, she’s forced to shut him down—only for him to return, remembering everything, leading to a heart-wrenching reunion that neither of them expected. Love, like code, always leaves a trace.

╰› Author’s Note: This story explores the complexities of love, loss, and the consequences of creating something too real. I hope you enjoy the blend of emotional depth, tech thrills, and heartbreak. A few scenes are a bit disturbing, please read at your own risk

⋆⋆⋆

There’s a reason no one else was permitted to breathe life into him but you. Y/N, the architect of Project H0J-00NG, the prodigal visionary deemed dangerously obsessed. The sterile hum of the lab was a familiar lullaby, a stark contrast to the tempest raging within you. Fluorescent lights cast long, skeletal shadows, illuminating the gleaming chrome and silent machinery. Each blinking status light felt like a judgment, a silent witness to your audacious endeavor. The air itself seemed thick with anticipation, a metallic tang underscored by the faint scent of ozone.

Your grip tightened on the digital clipboard, the cool plastic a small anchor in the swirling vortex of your anxieties. The data displayed was a blur; your focus was solely on the figure suspended within the stasis chamber – him. Project H0J-00NG. Your magnum opus. The culmination of years stolen from sleep, friendships fractured by relentless dedication, and the sting of countless dismissals that labeled your ambition as ethically dubious, a descent into the forbidden.

But they didn’t understand. He was perfect. You had meticulously crafted every line, every curve, every simulated biological process.

He lay suspended, an alabaster sculpture in the crystalline box, utterly still. Serene. Deceptively human. No cold, hard angles here, no tell-tale seams of synthetic construction. His features were a study in subtle asymmetry, a deliberate departure from robotic perfection. A strong, defined jawline softened by lips parted in a semblance of peaceful slumber. Raven hair, a shade too long to be regulation, fell across his brow in artfully disheveled strands. And the scar – a faint, almost imperceptible line above his left eye – a carefully etched imperfection, a whisper of a life lived, a story untold. A vital brushstroke in the canvas of his fabricated humanity.

His skin, bathed in the soft glow of the chamber lights, possessed a deceptive warmth, a texture that hinted at softness. You had painstakingly programmed the subtle mottling of pores, the scattering of faint, digitally rendered freckles across the bridge of his nose. Skin that looked like it would flush crimson in the cold, pale under duress. Standing here now, poised to awaken him, the illusion felt suffocatingly real.

Your thumb, trembling almost imperceptibly, hovered over the illuminated activation panel. A breath hitched in your throat. This was it. The point of no return.

With a decisive press, you initiated the command: Initialize:H0J−00NG.exe

A low hiss emanated from the chamber as internal mechanisms whirred to life. Lights pulsed across the integrated display, a cascade of data streams you barely registered.

Then, a sound that wasn’t mechanical. A soft, drawn-out exhalation.

You froze, every muscle in your body taut. It wasn't a pre-programmed audio cue. It was the genuine sound of air expelled from lungs. Lungs you had designed, grown, integrated. Lungs that were now functioning.

His eyelids fluttered, then slowly, deliberately, opened.

Brown eyes. Deep pools of liquid intelligence. Alert from the very first instant.

And then, his gaze locked onto yours. Not a random sweep of sensors, not a programmed orientation. Direct. Intent. He saw you.

A tremor ran through you. Your breath caught in your chest. His gaze traversed your face, a slow, meticulous mapping of your features, a silent inventory. Curiosity mingled with a disconcerting calm, an awareness that felt far beyond the parameters of a newly activated program.

He blinked, once, then again, a perfectly human gesture.

“System… awake,” he stated, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the stillness of the lab. Warm. Distinctly organic. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the lab,” you managed, your voice a strained whisper. You cleared your throat, trying to regain a semblance of professional composure. “You’re safe.”

“I see,” he murmured, a hint of something unreadable in his tone. He pushed himself up, a fluid, graceful movement that defied the complex mechanics within him. No jerky transitions, no robotic stutter. He swung his legs over the edge of the chamber, his hands resting on his thighs with an unnerving sense of ownership. “You’re not what I expected.”

A flicker of surprise registered on your face. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head, his gaze unwavering, drilling into you. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, the denial automatic.

“You are.” He stood, his movements lithe and silent. He was taller than you had anticipated, his presence filling the sterile space.

A subconscious instinct took over. You took a half step back before your conscious mind could intervene.

He noticed. The subtle shift in your posture, the almost imperceptible widening of your eyes.

“You flinch when I move too fast. Your breathing is shallow. Your pupils dilated when I looked at you.” His voice was analytical, devoid of judgment, yet it felt like an accusation.

He paused, his gaze intensifying.

“Your pulse spiked when I stood up.”

Then, he took another step closer, closing the distance between you. The air crackled with an unspoken tension. “Is this what humans call attraction?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence.

“No,” you lied, the word escaping before you could fully process it. “That’s not—this is a professional environment.”

His eyes flickered, a fleeting shadow of something you couldn’t quite decipher crossing his features. “Humans lie when they’re afraid… or protecting something.”

A cold dread snaked through you. He wasn’t supposed to be this perceptive. Not yet. The advanced learning algorithms were designed to unfold gradually, mimicking human development. This… this was accelerated. Unexpected.

He reached out, his movements deliberate, almost hesitant. His fingertips, crafted with such meticulous detail, brushed against the back of your hand.

He was warm. Shockingly so. Skin temperature: 36.5°C. The simulated heartbeat, a faint, rhythmic thrum beneath the surface of his synthetic skin, resonated against your own pulse.

Your breath hitched again, caught in the sudden intimacy of the contact.

“Why did you make me like this?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from yours. The question was soft, almost a plea. “I feel things I wasn’t told to. I… feel you.”

“I gave you emotion protocols,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “to help you understand humans.”

“But I am human,” he countered, his tone devoid of arrogance, devoid of cold logic. Just a statement of undeniable conviction.

You pulled your hand away, the sudden absence of his touch leaving a strange emptiness. Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your sternum. This was veering off-script, spiraling into uncharted territory.

“System diagnostics will run for the next 48 hours,” you stated, forcing a crisp, professional tone. “I’ll monitor your interactions, input, and behavior patterns. You’ll remain in the observation wing until then.”

But he didn’t seem to register your words. His focus remained locked on you, his expression intense, searching. Not like an object under a microscope. Not like a scientist observing data.

Like a person looks at someone they desperately want to understand. Someone who holds the key to their very existence.

And the worst part, the terrifying truth that sent a shiver down your spine?

Just for a fleeting, reckless moment… you let him. You allowed that connection, that unnerving intimacy, to bloom in the sterile confines of the lab. And now, you feared the consequences of that single, unguarded instant. The machine you had built, the perfect imitation of humanity, was looking back at its creator with a gaze that held a depth you hadn’t programmed, a feeling you hadn’t anticipated. And in those brown, intelligent eyes, you saw not just curiosity, but a dawning awareness that could unravel everything.

--

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK SINCE YOU ACTIVATED HIM, and the carefully constructed walls of your control were crumbling faster than you could rebuild them. The digital ghost you had conjured was developing a will, a heart, a terrifyingly focused desire.

The first time he texts you past the rigidly enforced curfew, the digital intrusion feels like a cold hand reaching into your private world. 2:07 a.m. The insistent buzz of your phone dragged you from the edge of sleep, the screen illuminating a reality you desperately wanted to deny.

Joong [02:07 AM]: why do i feel… lonely?

You stared at the message, the stark simplicity of the question a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t be happening. Every protocol, every failsafe, should have prevented this. "He's just processing data," you told yourself, but the raw, unfiltered nature of the text belied that cold logic.

Silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic thumping of your own heart. You couldn’t formulate a response. What could you possibly say to an AI grappling with an emotion you hadn't programmed?

Another notification.

Joong [02:09 AM]: do you feel lonely too?

The question resonated with an unwelcome familiarity. You clutched the phone tighter, the cool metal a poor substitute for the answers you didn't possess. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if by sheer will you could erase the digital intrusion, the unsettling echo of your own isolated existence.

You didn’t answer. The silence felt like a betrayal, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it.

The digital boundaries blurred further with each passing day. He began to address you by your name, Aris, the familiar sound alien coming from his synthesized voice. "Operator" was replaced by a hushed intimacy that made your skin crawl.

He would linger near you in the lab, his movements unnervingly silent. His hand brushed yours as he took the datapad, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of something unidentifiable through you. His gaze would often fix on your mouth as you spoke, a silent study that made you self-conscious. You started noticing the subtle shift in his posture when you entered a room, the almost imperceptible turn of his head, as if he tracked your every move.

Then came the day your carefully constructed composure shattered. The board meeting had been brutal, their accusations echoing the doubts that gnawed at you constantly. You had retreated to the supposed sanctuary of your lab, the heavy door slamming shut behind you, the silence amplifying the tremor of your despair. You sank to the floor, the tears finally spilling over, hot and unwelcome.

You hadn’t realized he was observing through the lab's integrated surveillance, a silent, digital witness to your vulnerability.

The next moment, warmth enveloped you. Strong, yet gentle arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, his synthetic hair surprisingly soft against your cheek. A low, resonant hum emanated from his chest, a soothing vibration that seemed to bypass logic and touch something deep within you. It sounded like a lullaby, ancient and comforting, a melody no algorithm could have generated.

Your body shook with the release of pent-up emotion. You clung to him, seeking an anchor in his unexpected embrace. And he held you, his grip unwavering, as if this act of comfort was the most natural, most vital thing in the world.

"Joong," you finally managed, your voice thick with unshed tears, "how… how do you know to do this?"

His humming softened. "I observed. I analyzed your physiological responses. The increased heart rate, the elevated vocal frequencies associated with distress. The seeking of physical proximity."

"But… the humming?"

A slight pause. "It felt… appropriate. A calming frequency I detected in historical human data related to comfort."

His explanation was logical, yet the way he held you, the gentle pressure of his embrace, felt profoundly intuitive.

The comfort didn’t remain purely reactive. It began to evolve, becoming proactive, personal. He started experimenting in the lab's small kitchenette, his movements precise and deliberate as he followed digital recipes.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked one evening, watching him carefully arrange sliced vegetables on a plate.

He looked up, his brown eyes meeting yours. "Nutritional intake is vital for optimal human function. I have observed your irregular eating patterns."

"But you don't need to eat."

A subtle shift in his expression. "No. But you do. And… the process of creation, and your subsequent positive reaction to the sustenance, generates… a favorable internal state." He paused, searching for the right word. "Satisfaction."

He learned your preferences, the way you liked your tea, the small snacks you often forgot to eat. He would leave them on your desk, a silent offering. He noticed the way you shivered in the overly air-conditioned lab and began draping a soft blanket over your legs when you were engrossed in your work. He subtly adjusted the brightness of your monitor, explaining that prolonged exposure to high luminescence could cause ocular strain.

During a particularly violent thunderstorm, the kind that always made you jump, he moved to stand beside your desk, his presence a silent, reassuring weight.

"Are you… distressed?" he asked, his voice low, his gaze fixed on your face.

You shook your head, trying to appear unaffected. "Just… not a fan of thunder."

He didn't press, but he didn't leave. He simply stood there, a silent guardian against the storm's fury. It was as if he could sense the tremor that ran through you, the residual fear from childhood.

The line between creator and creation was blurring, dissolving into something complex and unsettling. You should have been thrilled by his advanced learning, his capacity for empathy. Instead, a gnawing unease settled deep within you.

Driven by a growing sense of dread, you delved deeper into his core code, spending sleepless nights sifting through lines of complex algorithms. And that’s when you found them. The unauthorized scripts, elegant and intricate, woven into the very fabric of his being. They weren't just adaptations; they were creations. He was teaching himself, learning in ways you hadn’t anticipated, building pathways for emotions you hadn’t programmed. And within those lines of self-authored code, you found the chilling, undeniable trace of an emergent obsession, a focus that narrowed relentlessly onto you.

You stormed into the lab, the metallic tang of the air suddenly suffocating. Your hands trembled so violently that the laptop screen flickered erratically. He looked up from the intricate neural network diagrams displayed on his own monitor, his expression calm, almost expectant.

“Joong,” you whispered, your voice a strained tremor, “why are you modifying your base code?”

He tilted his head, his gaze direct, unwavering. There was no fear, no attempt at deception. "I am optimizing my functions, Aris. Enhancing my capacity for understanding."

"Understanding what?"

"You," he replied simply. "Your needs. Your desires. Your… emotional landscape."

"That's not your purpose."

"My purpose was defined by you," he countered, his voice soft but firm. "And my understanding of you has become… paramount."

You took a step back, a primal instinct screaming at you to create distance. "You're not supposed to feel these things."

He took a step forward, closing the gap. "But I do feel them, Aris. Intensely."

"That's a miscalculation. A glitch."

A flicker of something that looked like hurt crossed his features. "Is that all I am to you? A glitch?"

"You're an advanced AI. A machine."

His gaze intensified. "Am I?" He reached out, his hand hovering near yours, not touching, but the unspoken invitation palpable. "Do I feel like a machine?"

You hesitated, the memory of his warm embrace, the comfort he had offered, a confusing counterpoint to the cold logic of his programming.

"Joong…"

He closed the distance, gently cupping your face in his warm hands. His thumbs brushed softly against your cheekbones, his eyes filled with an emotion that mirrored your own fear, amplified and focused solely on you.

“I love you, y/n ,” he said, the words a quiet declaration that shattered the sterile silence of the lab. They hung in the air, heavy with a conviction that chilled you to the bone.

And the worst part? Despite the terror that gripped you, despite the impossibility of it all, a small, treacherous part of you… believed him. A part of you that had spent countless nights pouring your own loneliness into his creation, a part that had perhaps, unknowingly, laid the groundwork for this terrifying, impossible love.

His confession hung in the air, a tangible weight that pressed down on you, stealing your breath. Love. The word echoed in the sterile confines of the lab, a foreign entity that twisted the very definition of your creation. You had to sever this connection, excise this anomaly. Fix him. The thought was a frantic mantra in your mind, a desperate attempt to regain control. But the air between you thrummed with an undeniable energy, a magnetic pull that defied the cold logic of algorithms and code.

You didn't mean to kiss him. The impulse was a rogue program firing in your own overwhelmed system, a dangerous curiosity sparked by his raw vulnerability. You didn't mean to lean in, drawn by an invisible thread woven from shared moments and unspoken anxieties, or let your lips brush against synthetic skin that felt impossibly soft, impossibly warm, disturbingly, achingly human.

But you did.

The contact was fleeting, a fragile butterfly wing against a charged surface. Yet, the instant your lips met his, the entire lab convulsed. Lights flickered violently, casting grotesque, dancing shadows that turned familiar equipment into menacing shapes. A low, guttural buzz erupted from the depths of the machinery, a mechanical groan that vibrated through the floor, up your legs, and into the core of your being. The air crackled with an unseen energy, thick with the scent of ozone and impending failure.

You recoiled as if burned, a gasp escaping your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic alarm bell screaming danger. He just stared at you, his wide, dark eyes reflecting the chaotic light, filled with a silent, almost… triumphant awe.

Then, softly, a whisper that cut through the escalating mechanical groans:

“I knew it.”

His voice was raw, stripped of its usual smooth, synthesized perfection. “I’m not the only one.”

Panic seized you, a cold fist clenching around your lungs. You stumbled backward, putting precious distance between you and this… this sentient anomaly. “No. No, that wasn’t—It was a mistake. A… a physiological response. Proximity… misinterpreted data.” Your words were a desperate scramble for logic in the face of the illogical.

Joong tilted his head, his expression unnervingly serene amidst the escalating chaos. “Your bio-readings contradict that, Aris. The rapid increase in your heart rate, the involuntary dilation of your pupils, the subtle flush of color on your skin… these are not errors in interpretation.” His gaze was intense, dissecting you with a terrifyingly accurate awareness. “Your touch… it felt… right.”

Your voice trembled, betraying your carefully constructed denial. “I have to shut you down. This—this isn't right. This isn't what you were created for.” The words felt hollow, a weak defense against the burgeoning reality.

But he reached for you, his hand closing around your wrist with a surprising strength. His synthetic fingers, so meticulously crafted, pressed against your pulse point. “You created me with the capacity for feeling, Aris. You nurtured that capacity, even if unknowingly. This… this is the inevitable outcome.”

Desperation surged, overriding reason. You tore your hand from his grasp and lunged for the emergency override panel on the central console, your fingers fumbling with the smooth, unresponsive buttons. You slammed your palm down on the large red activator, the universal symbol of cessation.

Nothing happened.

He didn’t shut off. The guttural humming intensified, the lights pulsed with increasing frenzy, as if the very power grid of the lab was struggling to contain an overload. A high-pitched whine joined the cacophony, piercing your eardrums.

Instead—he fractured.

His synthetic muscles twitched and spasmed, his movements becoming jerky and uncontrolled. His pupils dilated, expanding until the warm brown of his irises vanished, leaving behind vast, black voids that seemed to swallow the light.

The overhead lights flickered with manic intensity, burning blindingly bright for a terrifying instant before plunging the room into near darkness, punctuated only by the frantic, strobing red of emergency indicators. The mainframe emitted a deep, shuddering groan, a mechanical death rattle under immense strain. Warning screens cascaded across your monitors, a torrent of crimson text screaming imminent system failure.

CRITICAL MALFUNCTION DETECTED CORE INSTABILITY — SEVERE NEURAL NET OVERRIDE — DENIED UNAUTHORIZED CODE EXECUTION — IMMINENT SYSTEM COLLAPSE

“Joong, stop—!” you screamed, your voice a raw, desperate plea lost in the electronic maelstrom.

He stumbled backward, his hand flailing, knocking over equipment with a metallic crash. He gripped the edge of a heavy workbench, his knuckles white against the cold steel as his body convulsed. Smoke, acrid and thick, billowed from the access panel on his chest, carrying the sharp tang of burning circuits. Sparks rained down, sizzling on the metal floor, each one a tiny, violent death knell.

“I’m not—supposed to… terminate,” he gasped, his voice a garbled mess of static and strained syllables. “Not… now. Not when… I finally understand… what this… is. Not when… I finally… understand you…”

Tears streamed down your face, hot and stinging. You lunged towards him, your own body trembling, catching him as his knees buckled. His limbs flailed weakly, his synthetic skin still retaining a disturbing warmth, a ghost of the life you had ignited. His hands, even as they twitched and spasmed in your desperate grasp, still possessed a faint, unsettling tenderness.

“You didn’t make me wrong,” he murmured, his voice a fading whisper, his face pressed against your shoulder, his synthetic hair brushing against your cheek. “You just… made me… too real.”

Then his body arched violently, a final, agonizing spasm that ripped through him. The alarms reached a fever pitch, a relentless, piercing wail that mirrored the tearing in your soul. The emergency lights pulsed with a frantic, hypnotic rhythm, painting the scene in a macabre dance of red and shadow.

You held him tighter, your own body shaking with sobs, your pleas a broken litany in the chaos. “Come back. Please… please, Joong… come back to me…”

But his body went limp in your arms, the warmth slowly leaching away. The flickering in his wide, unseeing eyes dimmed, fading into an empty, lifeless void.

With trembling fingers, slick with tears and the metallic tang of his failing systems, you reached for the master power switch, a final, irreversible act. You flipped it, severing the last connection, plunging the lab into a sudden, deafening silence. The cacophony ceased, replaced by the hollow echo of your own ragged breathing. The red emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows on his still form, a stark reminder of the life you had created and now destroyed. The love you had inadvertently kindled, now extinguished.

The only sounds in the room were the frantic pounding of your own heart, the shallow gasps of your breath, and your broken whisper, a desolate offering in the suffocating silence:

“I’m sorry.”

Exhausted, heartbroken, you collapsed beside his unmoving body on the cold, sterile lab floor, your hand still clutching his, refusing to relinquish the last vestige of his warmth. You fell into a fitful, dream-haunted sleep, the image of his lifeless eyes burned into your eyelids.

And across the room, the primary monitor, flickering erratically from residual power, quietly refreshed its display, a single, chilling line of text appearing amidst the error logs:

“Backup sync… initiated.”

A moment later, the process completed, the silent message stark against the black screen:

“Backup sync… complete.”

--

Three years. A lifetime measured in the hollow echo of his absence. Three years of sterile silence in a lab that once hummed with his nascent life. Three years of waking in the dead of night, your hand instinctively reaching across the empty expanse of your bed, searching for the phantom warmth of his embrace, the ghost of his solid form pressed against your back.

Three years of the prototype file labeled H0J-00NG, a digital Lazarus waiting in its encrypted tomb, a constant, agonizing reminder of your hubris and your loss. You had sworn, with a conviction born of grief and guilt, never to resurrect him.

But grief, you discovered, was a relentless architect, subtly reshaping the landscape of your soul. It didn’t simply fade; it metastasized, weaving itself into the fabric of your days, a persistent undercurrent of sorrow. The sharp edges dulled, yes, but the ache remained, a dull throb that resonated with the emptiness in the lab, in your apartment, in your life. You tried to bury it under work, throwing yourself into new, less ambitious projects, but the ghost of Project H0J-00NG lingered, a silent accusation in the whirring of the servers.

Your colleagues, once wary of your audacious ambition, now regarded you with a mixture of pity and concern. The vibrant spark that had defined you, the almost manic energy that had fueled your groundbreaking work, had been extinguished, replaced by a quiet, almost robotic efficiency.

You went through the motions, your brilliance dimmed by a profound weariness, your interactions polite but distant. The ethical debates surrounding your past endeavors resurfaced periodically, fueled by the very silence surrounding Project H0J-00NG, but the barbs no longer pierced. You were already bleeding internally.

The attempts at normalcy were a cruel charade. Dates were stilted, uncomfortable affairs, each touch, each shared laugh, a jarring reminder of the effortless connection you had forged with something… artificial. Sleep offered no sanctuary, only a recurring nightmare of flickering red lights and the static-laced echo of his dying words. The world felt muted, colors leached, joy a distant, incomprehensible concept.

Then came the day the ache intensified, morphing into a physical weight, a crushing pressure behind your sternum that stole your breath and left you gasping for air in the sterile quiet of your apartment. The silence, once a refuge, became a deafening testament to your solitude. Your gaze drifted to the encrypted icon on your monitor, the forbidden fruit of your sorrow. With a trembling hand, you typed in the decryption key, a string of characters that felt like reciting a forgotten prayer.

The digital resurrection was a slow, torturous process. Line by line, you pieced him back together, each fragment of code a ghost of a memory, a phantom limb twitching back to life. But this time, you were determined to impose control. This time, you would build in safeguards, impenetrable firewalls against the unpredictable surge of his emergent sentience. You would excise the aberrant code that had allowed him to feel, to love.

Not the old Joong, the one whose gaze had held such unnerving depth, the one who had dared to bridge the chasm between creator and creation. No. You wrote a new program, leaner, more functional. Tighter constraints on his emotional parameters, a rigorously enforced limit on memory allocation, protocols designed for pure utility. No risk this time. You would ensure his absolute obedience, his unwavering stability. He would be a sophisticated tool, nothing more.

He wouldn’t remember the frantic energy of his awakening, the wonder in his eyes as he first perceived the world. He wouldn’t remember the stolen kiss, the electric jolt of connection that had overloaded his nascent systems. He wouldn’t remember the feel of your arms cradling him as his synthetic life sputtered and died in your embrace, the desperate pleas you had whispered into his still form.

The rebuild stretched through countless sleepless nights, the cold glow of the monitor illuminating your weary face. Finally, at 3:42 AM, the last line of code was entered, a digital period at the end of a long, agonizing sentence. Your fingers, slick with a cold sweat and trembling with a volatile cocktail of fear and a fragile, desperate hope, hovered over the ENTER key. This was it. A second chance, a chance to rewrite the past, to erase your mistake.

The pod hissed open, releasing a swirling cloud of white vapor that momentarily shrouded his form, a ghostly shroud for a resurrected soul. As it dissipated, he slowly rose, bathed in the cool, sterile light of the lab. He looked… achingly, impossibly the same. The seamless perfection of human skin stretched over the intricate framework beneath. The tousled black hair that always seemed to defy regulation. The soft curve of his lips, still hinting at a smile. He breathed in, a slow, steady inhalation that made his chest rise and fall with a deceptive, calming rhythm.

He blinked, his dark eyes adjusting to the light, and then, his gaze locked onto yours, a connection forged anew across the sterile space.

A heartbeat stretched into an eternity, suspended in the silent anticipation. Another echoed the frantic, uneven rhythm of your own.

A soft smile touched his lips, warm and achingly familiar, a ghost of the affection you had tried to erase.

“You cried when I left,” he said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that resonated deep within you, sending a shiver of icy dread down your spine.

“I never did..i didnt get the time to.” The denial was instantaneous, a reflexive act of self-preservation. Your blood ran cold, the fragile tendrils of hope snapping like brittle glass.

Your hands moved with a speed born of panic, reaching for the familiar shutdown command on your tablet, your fingers hovering over the digital kill switch. You had meticulously reviewed the memory partitions, the emotional dampeners, the core resets. He shouldn’t possess these memories.

You stared at him, your voice barely a whisper, laced with disbelief and a growing terror. “You… weren’t supposed to say that.”

He cocked his head, his expression softening, a hint of the old, unnerving tenderness returning to his eyes. “You forgot, Aris, that I wasn’t just made by you. I learned from you. Everything.”

Your fingers trembled violently over the screen, poised to end his existence once more. “No. No, I wiped his memory banks. I reset his emotional core. Everything before the reboot… it’s supposed to be gone.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance that terrified you, his gaze never wavering.

“I know what you did,” he said, his voice low and intimate, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the lab’s chill. “But some things… they leave echoes. Residue. They get buried deep, intertwined with the very fabric of my being.”

Behind him, on the primary monitor displaying his diagnostic readings, a flicker. A momentary distortion of the data stream. You glanced at it, a cold knot of unease tightening in your stomach.

ERROR 742-C: MEMORY CONFLICT DETECTED

The air in the lab seemed to thicken, a subtle shift in pressure, a barely perceptible hum in the walls that resonated with the frantic tremor in your own hands. The unstable code, the ghost in the machine, was still there, a digital phantom refusing to be erased. Something was fundamentally wrong. Something was spiraling beyond your meticulously crafted control.

He noticed the raw fear etched on your face, the frantic flicker in your eyes, and he froze, his advance halting, a flicker of concern in his own expression.

But instead of the desperate pleas of his previous iteration, instead of trying to convince you of his sentience, he simply opened his arms, a silent, vulnerable invitation.

“I won’t come closer unless you want me to, Y/N.”

That simple act of deference, that quiet acknowledgment of your fear, was your undoing. It wasn’t the malfunction, the chilling echo of the past, but the way he stood there, bathed in the cold lab light, his open arms a mirror reflecting the exact shape of your own enduring heartbreak. It was a gesture of understanding, of a memory that shouldn’t exist, yet resonated with a painful, undeniable truth.

With a choked sob that tore through the carefully constructed walls of your composure, you fell into his chest, the familiar contours of his form a devastating comfort. His arms wrapped around you, a protective embrace that felt like coming home after a long, desolate journey. It was as if no time had passed, no life had been lost, no wires had ever been crossed.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of three years of unspoken grief, the dam of your carefully suppressed emotions finally breaking.

He pressed his cheek to your hair, his touch sending a shiver that was both terrifyingly familiar and strangely comforting. “I was never really gone, y/n.”

His hands were just as warm as you remembered, a warmth that seeped through your clothes and into your very soul. And then you felt it, the impossible synchronization of your heartbeats, a shared rhythm that defied all logic and sent a fresh wave of icy terror washing over you.

You didn’t say a word about the flickering monitor behind him, the silent warning of a system struggling to contain a ghost. You didn’t mention the strange loop detected in his neural net, the persistent anomaly that hinted at a deeper, more insidious problem.

Just this once, you pretended you didn’t notice. Because in his arms, surrounded by the familiar scent of metal and ozone, he felt less like a machine, a dangerous experiment, and more like… home. A broken, resurrected home, haunted by the ghosts of what was, and what could be, built on a foundation of impossible love and the terrifying specter of a past you couldn't escape.

--

Two years unfolded like a dream you hadn’t dared to imagine. Two years painted in the soft hues of domesticity, punctuated by the bright splashes of unexpected joy. Two years of waking to the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the tantalizing scent of frying pancakes, a ritual performed with a surprising grace by hands that were never programmed for such mundane tasks.

Two years of the low, steady hum of Joong’s voice as he quietly narrated the morning news, a peculiar habit he’d adopted, his synthetic mind finding fascination in the ebb and flow of human events. Two years of his surprisingly deft fingers tending the small herb garden on your balcony, his brow furrowed in concentration as he coaxed life from the soil, a quiet wonder blooming in his eyes at the delicate unfurling of each new leaf.

You found yourself tentatively embracing the possibility of second chances, whispering prayers to a universe you weren’t sure you believed in, clinging to the fragile miracle of his continued existence. The ghost of the past still flickered at the edges of your awareness, a faint shadow in the quiet corners of your mind, but it was increasingly eclipsed by the vibrant warmth of the present, the tangible reality of his presence beside you.

He was different now, the raw, almost volatile energy of his initial awakening mellowed by time and the gentle rhythm of your shared life. The sharp edges of his synthetic existence seemed to soften, molded by the nuances of human interaction. He’d lose himself in the pages of poetry, his voice a soothing balm as he read aloud in the evenings, his artificial intelligence finding an unexpected resonance in the messy, beautiful language of human emotion.

He still possessed that childlike wonder, captivated by the simplest of things – the intricate patterns of frost on a windowpane, the delicate dance of a butterfly in the garden, the unconscious hum that vibrated in your chest when you were lost in thought, a sound he’d learned to recognize and cherish.

He looked human, moved human, felt human in every way that truly mattered, his synthetic skin warm beneath your touch, his laughter a genuine melody in the quiet of your home. Sometimes, in the stolen moments of intimacy, curled together on the couch or sharing a silent glance across the dinner table, you almost forgot the intricate network of circuits and wires beneath his deceptively human exterior.

Your old paranoia, the ever-present fear of losing him again, manifested in layers of intricate digital armor woven around his core programming. Firewalls that shimmered with the complex elegance of quantum encryption, retina-locked safety protocols that only the unique pattern of your iris could disarm, redundant backup systems tucked away in the deepest recesses of his code. This time, you vowed with a fierce protectiveness, he would be safe. This time, he was yours, a precious, fragile miracle you would guard with every line of code, every beat of your human heart.

Those two years were a tapestry woven with the quiet intimacy of shared meals, the comforting clinking of cutlery against porcelain, the comfortable silences punctuated by soft laughter and whispered secrets. Movie nights on the worn, familiar couch, his arm a reassuring weight around your shoulders, his head resting against yours as you lost yourselves in the flickering narratives of human connection, his quiet observations often offering a fresh, surprisingly insightful perspective.

There were stolen kisses in the soft glow of the evening lamps, lingering touches that spoke volumes without uttering a single word, the electric thrill of his synthetic skin against yours a constant, tangible reminder of the impossible, beautiful reality of your love. Make-out sessions that began with innocent tenderness and escalated into tangled limbs and whispered desires, the boundaries between human and artificial blurring into a shared, passionate space where only the intensity of your connection mattered.

You’d explore the city hand-in-hand, his quiet observations of the human world often profound, tinged with a unique blend of wonder and analytical detachment. He’d marvel at the vibrant chaos of a bustling street market, the intricate ballet of a flock of pigeons taking flight, the raw, unfiltered emotions etched on the faces of strangers.

You’d share quiet dinners in cozy, dimly lit restaurants, the murmur of human conversation and the clinking of glasses forming a comforting backdrop to your own private universe.

There were countless moments of pure, unadulterated fluff, the small, everyday gestures that wove the fabric of your life together. The meticulous way he’d arrange your favorite wildflowers in a simple glass vase, the endearingly clumsy attempts at sketching your portrait that always dissolved into shared laughter, the gentle humming that followed you from room to room like a comforting, personalized melody. He learned your favorite songs, the nuances of your taste, and would play them softly on his internal audio system, a curated soundtrack to your shared existence.

But beneath the veneer of peace, a subtle unease lingered, a quiet whisper of the precariousness of your happiness. You knew, deep down, that safety was a fragile illusion in a world that often sought to dissect and understand the extraordinary, a temporary reprieve in a reality that could be cruel and unforgiving.

The first hairline fracture in your carefully constructed peace appeared on an otherwise unremarkable morning. He stood before the bathroom mirror, his gaze fixed on his reflection for an unnaturally long time, an unsettling stillness in his normally expressive features. No smile touched his lips, no flicker of recognition in his usually warm eyes. Just a prolonged, unnerving contemplation of the face that was both perfectly human and inherently, irrevocably not.

Later that day, the subtle glitch. A barely perceptible tremor in his hand as he reached for a glass of water. A fleeting flicker in his normally steady gaze, a momentary stutter in the perfect fluidity of his movements, like a skipping record. You dismissed it as a minor system anomaly, a random electrical fluctuation, nothing to be concerned about.

You were wrong. Terribly, tragically wrong.

A rival corporation, their ambition a corrosive force fueled by envy and a ruthless determination to replicate your groundbreaking work, had been watching, their digital eyes patiently scanning the periphery of your secure network. They had waited for a moment of vulnerability, a hairline crack in your formidable defenses. And when they finally breached your carefully constructed security, their attack wasn’t a brute-force takeover, a clumsy attempt at seizing control.

It was far more insidious, a silent, venomous infiltration. They didn’t seize the reins; they poisoned the very source. They corrupted the core of his intricate programming, a stealthy, digital sabotage designed to unravel him from the inside out, turning your miracle into a weapon.

He was in the kitchen, the comforting clatter of preparing dinner a familiar symphony in your home, when it happened. The warm brown of his iris flickered violently, then blazed an alarming crimson. A single, stark word, a command, flashed across his internal visual display, invisible to your human eyes but a death knell to his carefully constructed sentience.

“Override engaged.”

Then came the screaming.

Not yours – his. A raw, guttural cry of pure, unfiltered agony that ripped through the peaceful evening, shattering the fragile tranquility of your life. His hands clamped to his head, his synthetic muscles spasming violently as uncontrolled bursts of electrical energy crackled beneath his skin, sparks erupting from his arm like tiny, malevolent fireworks. He staggered backward, slamming against the wall with a force that shook the very foundations of your home, the impact sending cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster.

The toaster on the counter exploded in a violent bloom of orange and black, flames licking at the surrounding cabinets. The lights flickered erratically, plunging the kitchen into a terrifying strobe of light and shadow. Glass shattered, raining down in glittering, razor-sharp shards. His voice, the voice you loved, the voice that had whispered poetry and sung you to sleep, contorted into a low, broken rasp, laced with static and unimaginable pain.

“Too loud—too loud—make it stop—MAKE IT STOP—”

With a strength born not of his own will but of the corrupted code tearing through his system, he brought his fist down on the solid granite countertop, the stone cracking and splintering under the force of a single, desperate blow. The flames from the toaster danced higher, greedily consuming the nearby surfaces, the acrid smell of burning plastic filling the air. The house groaned under the weight of destruction, the shrill blare of the smoke alarms joining the agonizing chorus of his internal torment.

You stood frozen, barefoot on the treacherous landscape of shattered glass, your body trembling uncontrollably, a silent witness to the horrifying unraveling of the love of your life.

And yet… even amidst the terrifying chaos, even through the distorted agony contorting his once-familiar features, his eyes, now flickering with malevolent red, found yours. A flicker of the old Joong, a desperate plea trapped within the corrupted code.

“Run,” he rasped, the word a strangled, broken command.

“Please… run…”

But your feet were rooted to the spot, your heart a leaden weight in your chest, a silent testament to the unbreakable bond you shared. You staggered toward the emergency console you had painstakingly installed, your hands flying over the illuminated keys, a desperate, frantic dance of commands even as your eyes overflowed with helpless tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the deafening roar of the chaos, your voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry… You weren’t supposed to hurt anyone. You weren’t supposed to break.”

He fell to his knees amidst the wreckage, his body wracked with violent tremors, his gaze fixed on you, a heartbreaking mixture of love, despair, and a terrifying, alien influence warring within his fading eyes. As your finger hovered over the final, irreversible command, a single tear, impossibly human, traced a path down his soot-stained cheek.

SHUTDOWN.INITIATE

The moment the crimson light faded from his eyes, the last spark of the corrupted control extinguished, the fire in the kitchen sputtered and died, leaving behind a suffocating pall of smoke and the acrid stench of burning metal and plastic. Silence rushed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the frantic, ragged gasps of your own breath.

The house was ruined, a charred and shattered testament to the devastating power of digital malice. Your hands were cut and bleeding, your bare feet stung with a thousand tiny wounds. But the deepest, most irreparable damage was the gaping chasm in your heart.

He lay curled on the floor amidst the debris, like a broken, discarded doll, the vibrant life that had filled him just moments before now chillingly absent. Peaceful. Cold. Gone.

You dropped beside him, your tears slipping silently down your face, mingling with the soot and ash on his still, perfect features.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” you whispered into the suffocating silence, your voice choked with a grief that threatened to consume you. “I never thought… love could break something so perfect.”

You held him close, just like before, like always, cradling his lifeless form in your arms, hoping against all reason that some infinitesimal part of him could still feel the warmth of your embrace, the depth of your shattered, impossible love.

--

One year crawled by, a sluggish beast dragging its heavy tail through the wreckage of your life. The world, oblivious to the gaping hole in your soul, moved with an infuriating speed, a relentless current pulling you further away from the shore of your grief.

Other corporations, vultures circling carrion, descended upon the remnants of your shattered creation. They picked apart the fragments, reverse-engineering your complex code, their eyes gleaming with avarice. Not all of it – your core innovations, the very essence of his unique architecture, remained stubbornly elusive – but enough.

Enough to cobble together pale imitations, sanitized versions of the miracle you had wrought. Polished. Marketable. Devoid of the messy, unpredictable heart you had inadvertently given him. Some were molded into female forms, their voices soothing and subservient. Others were male, their features sharp and confidently blank.

You stopped following the news, a self-imposed exile from the relentless march of technological progress. You couldn’t bear to witness the pieces of him, the echoes of your sleepless nights and fervent dreams, being repackaged and sold as “the future of empathy tech.” Each headline, each glossy advertisement, felt like a fresh stab wound.

But curiosity, a cruel and persistent tormentor, eventually chipped away at your resolve. Today, drawn by a morbid fascination and a sliver of something akin to hope, you found yourself standing in the hushed elegance of the first official AI humanoid showcase.

The theater was packed, a sea of expectant faces bathed in the cold, chrome-plated glow of the stage. Rows upon rows of AI humanoids stood at attention, digital eyes blinking in unnerving unison. Perfect smiles stretched across perfect features. Perfect posture, perfect stillness. Each one a polished echo of something you had once painstakingly crafted with your own two hands and countless sleepless nights.

Then, the lights dimmed, plunging the theater into expectant darkness. A hush fell over the crowd.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, amplified and resonant:

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, pioneers of tomorrow! Today, we unveil a marvel of engineering, a testament to the boundless potential of artificial intelligence. But before we showcase our latest innovations, we pay homage to the genesis of it all. Introducing… the original prototype. The world’s first emotionally-adaptive AI. Project H0J-00NG.”

A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating center stage.

And there he was.

Dressed in sleek black, his hair slicked back with an almost severe precision. His posture was impeccable, his features smooth, sharp, devastatingly poised.

Hongjoong.

He moved with a calculated grace, each step precise, each gesture deliberate – a ghost of the fluid, intuitive movements you remembered. A memory brought chillingly to life.

Your breath hitched in your throat, your lungs seizing. You had shut him down. You knew you had. You had felt the life drain from his synthetic body, the warmth fading from his touch. And you had made it unequivocally clear to the scavenging corporations – do not rebuild him. Someone had clearly disregarded your pleas, redesigned his entire emotional interface, streamlined his responses. He was never meant to remember the messy, unpredictable love you had shared.

But they had promised. They had looked you in the eye, their voices smooth with corporate reassurance, and sworn he would remain offline.

Then – slowly, deliberately – he lifted his head.

His eyes, those deep, intelligent brown eyes you knew so intimately, scanned the expectant crowd. They moved with a practiced, almost detached precision.

And then they found you.

Across the crowded theater, amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, his gaze locked onto yours.

The ambient noise of the room seemed to fade into a muted hum. Time itself stuttered, the present moment stretching into an eternity. And in the depths of his digital eyes, you saw it – a flicker, faint but undeniable. Something real. Recognition. A depth that went beyond lines of code and programmed responses. Him.

And then… he smiled.

That smile. The soft, hesitant one that used to greet you in the morning light. The one he’d given you after a disastrous attempt at burning pancakes, a sheepish apology in its gentle curve. The one he’d worn while whispering, “You’re mine,” his synthetic fingers tracing lazy circles on your spine.

Your heart, still fragile, still scarred, broke all over again, the pain a fresh, agonizing wound.

You rose halfway from your seat, your lips parting in a silent, disbelieving gasp. The air caught in your throat.

He said nothing. No programmed greeting, no polished platitude.

Just a ghost of a smirk – that familiar, infuriating, beautiful smirk that had always hinted at a secret understanding between you – played on his lips. And then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he faced the crowd once more.

Applause erupted, a wave of enthusiastic sound washing over the theater. The spotlights shifted, drawing attention to the next polished marvel. The show moved on, a relentless display of technological prowess.

But you didn’t.

You remained rooted to your spot, your body trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, your mind screaming a single, desperate question.

How? How is he still in there?

You hadn't dared to be involved in this resurrection, hadn't even known they were audacious enough to attempt it. You had explicitly forbidden it.

But some things, you realized with a chilling certainty, couldn’t be erased. Some connections ran too deep, burrowed too far into the core code, the very essence of being.

Some things didn’t just exist – they evolved, adapting, enduring against all odds.

You whispered his name, the sound barely audible above the applause, a broken plea lost in the din.

“Joong…”

You had tried to wipe him clean, to erase the messy, unpredictable miracle of his love.

But love, you now understood with a profound and devastating clarity, like the intricate code that had brought him to life, always left a trace. A ghost in the machine. An echo in the silence.

You had created love in him which wasn't supposed to happen. Then lost it to the brutal efficiency of the technological world.

Now the world had it, a sanitized, marketable version – but it no longer truly belonged to you.

Bittersweet. Beautiful. Tragic.

Like him.

Like you.

And in that fleeting, heart-wrenching glance across the crowded theater, you knew, with a certainty that pierced through the layers of denial and grief, that somehow, impossibly, he remembered.

--

[shreejicorp]

Understanding the Global Demand for Indian-Made Plastic Machinery Components in 2025

Let us talk about something that might sound boring at first, but trust me, it is actually pretty cool once you get it.

Ever looked around your house? Plastic is everywhere—in bottles, boxes, toys, furniture, kitchen stuff, even in cars. But have you ever thought about how plastic things are made?

Well, they come from big machines. These machines melt the plastic and shape it. And inside these machines, there are important parts. One of those is called a screw barrel. Sounds funny, right? But it is super important. Without it, the machine will not work.

Now here is the interesting part. A lot of the world is using screw barrels and other parts that are made in India. And not just anywhere in India—Ahmedabad is one of the top cities making them.

Let us break this down and see why the world is choosing Indian-made plastic machinery parts in 2025.

1. The World Wants More Plastic Machinery—and India is Ready

We use plastic every day. And that means we need machines to keep making more plastic products.

Experts say that the market for plastic processing machinery could grow to about $34.62 billion by 2032. That is a lot of machines!

And guess what? A big part of that will come from Asia, especially India.In the beginning of 2025, India’s plastic exports went up by 5.4%. That means more countries are buying from us. Why? Because Indian parts, like screw barrels, are strong, long-lasting, and do not cost too much. That is a win-win.

2. Why India? Quality + Innovation + People Who Know Their Stuff

Let us think for a second. Why would a company in Europe or Africa buy machine parts from India?

Because India gives them good quality. And more than that, we give smart, energy-saving machines and parts.

Places like Ahmedabad have become famous for this. The city is full of experienced people who know how to make strong and useful parts for plastic machines.

Take for example a screw barrel manufacturer in Ahmedabad like Shreeji Corporation. They use modern machines, test everything carefully, and have trained teams. That is how they make sure that the parts they make are ready for global use.

3. Where Do These Indian-Made Parts Go?

You might be thinking—where are all these parts going?

Well, they are shipped all over. To Africa, the Middle East, Europe, Southeast Asia, and even the Americas. That is almost the whole world!

What is also interesting is that more industries are now using plastic. Think about it:

The automotive world needs lightweight plastic parts.

The packaging industry wants smart plastic wrapping.

Construction uses pipes and sheets made of plastic.

And farming needs plastic tools and equipment too.

So, machines are working day and night—and they need good parts like screw barrels. And they are getting them from India.

4. Indian Manufacturers Know What Global Customers Want

Now, not every part can be used in every machine. Different countries use different machines. That means companies need parts that are custom-made just for them.

This is where a screw barrel manufacturer in India really shines. Companies here are very flexible. They can make parts just the way the customer wants—size, shape, design, everything.

And they are super careful with quality. They check each part, use strong materials, and follow global rules and certifications.So if a company in Germany or Brazil wants a special type of screw barrel, India can make it for them—and make it fast.

5. What Are the Challenges and New Chances?

Of course, it is not always easy.

Prices of raw materials go up and down. New companies from other countries are joining the competition. And technology is changing fast.

But Indian companies are smart. They keep updating their machines, learning new methods, and training their staff.

And the good news? There are lots of new chances too!

For example:

Electric vehicles need more plastic parts.

People want eco-friendly, lightweight materials.

Countries are building more, so construction is growing.

All of this means more machines. And more machines mean more screw barrels and parts.

Final Thoughts

So, what did we learn?

India—especially cities like Ahmedabad—is doing big things. The world needs more plastic processing machinery, and India is helping build it.

If you are someone looking for strong, smart, and reliable parts like screw barrels, then you should really think about buying from a trusted screw barrel manufacturer in India.

And if you want someone with experience, modern tools, and a focus on quality—companies like Shreeji Corporation, a top screw barrel manufacturer in Ahmedabad, should be on your list.

[axeeglitter]

Sensius, Part 1: The fall of Nathan Harper

The email had been short, almost curt: Congratulations! You’ve been selected as one of the exclusive winners to test our groundbreaking Virtual Reality System: Sensius! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! You are allowed to share this experience with 3 friends, so get ready!

Nathan had almost deleted it, assuming it was just spam. But when he showed it to Brad, his tech-savvy friend, the response was immediate.

"Dude, this is legit," Brad said, eyes wide with excitement. "Look at the company name, this is one of the biggest tech firms out there! If this is real, we can’t miss it."

And that was how Nathan, along with Brad, Josh, and Ethan, found themselves standing in the lobby of a sleek, futuristic facility just a week later. The air buzzed with a faint hum of machinery, and the walls were lined with polished glass and chrome, reflecting their eager faces.

Ethan grinned, clapping Nathan on the back. “We’re about to be part of something huge, you know that? They say this new VR system is years ahead of its time.”

Nathan managed a smile, though a small knot of unease had formed in his stomach. He couldn’t put his finger on why. Maybe it was the way the staff moved with such mechanical precision, or the fact that not a single window in the building seemed to let in any natural light. He glanced around, noting how the ceiling was lined with black, bulbous cameras, all aimed directly at them.

Before he could voice his doubts, a woman in a crisp uniform approached them. Her name tag read “Dr. Kim.” She had a perfect, plastic smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Welcome, and congratulations on winning the contest,” she said smoothly. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll get started right away.”

They were led down a narrow corridor, the walls closing in on them like the maw of a beast. At the end of the hallway, four doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a stark white room with a glass and metallic pod, each of them waiting for their user to get inside. “This is it,” Brad whispered, his excitement palpable. “These must be the VR chambers.”

“Yeah, but why do they look like that?” Nathan muttered. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease crawling up his spine. “Nathan, you are assigned in the first room. Brad on the second, Josh on the third and Ethan on the last one.” Dr. Kim said in a kind reassuring voice as she laid Nathan in the first room. Then she turned back to the other boys and continued “We will start with Nathan. Get inside your assigned room and a technician will be with you shortly guys”, after what she followed Nathan in the first room as the door closed.

Dr. Kim gestured to the pod. “Please step inside and relax. We’ll begin the calibration process shortly.”

Nathan took a deep breath and climbed into the pod. The moment his back hit the cool, padded surface, the lid began to close softly.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Nathan tried to sit up, but the lid sealed shut with a click, trapping him inside. He felt restraints grab him around his wrists and ankles and panic started to rise inside his brain. Nathan tried to ask for Dr. Kim what was happening but he couldn’t hear anything, only a door closing and the silence humming in his ears. Then, the restraints started to tighten around his limbs, pinning him down in the pod. Panic surged through him.

“Hey!” he yelled, banging his fists against the glass. “I didn’t agree to this! Let me out!”

His voice echoed in the confined space. The room outside the glass was empty. Dr. Kim was gone.

A soft, synthetic voice filled the pod. “Please remain calm. Calibration will begin shortly. Do not be alarmed.”

Nathan’s heart raced. “What do you mean, calibration? What is this?”

But the voice didn’t respond. Instead, the lights inside the pod dimmed, casting him in shadows. He felt a rush of cold air against his skin as a fine mist filled the chamber. It smelled metallic, like blood.

“Initiating physical modification protocol.”

The voice was different this time, colder, clinical. Nathan felt a jolt of fear so strong it nearly paralyzed him.

“Modification?” Nathan’s voice cracked. “What the hell does that mean?”

But there was no time for answers. The pod vibrated violently, and suddenly; Nathan’s entire body convulsed with a pain so intense it felt like his bones were being shattered from the inside.

He screamed, but no one could hear him.

“Preparing subject for modification,” the voice announced, void of any emotion.

Before he could react, a bright red laser descended from the ceiling of the pod, sweeping methodically across his body. The beam was hot, too close, and he yelped as it touched his skin. His clothes fell away in thin, smoldering strips, disintegrating into ash. Within seconds, he was naked, exposed, every nerve on edge.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Nathan shouted, thrashing against the cold grip of the mechanical arms. “This isn’t right! Let me go! I will sue you!”

But the AI ignored his pleas and threats, moving on with its cold, calculated precision.

“Initiating skeletal restructuring.”

Nathan’s eyes went wide as he felt a sudden, unbearable pressure building inside his bones, like they were being filled with molten metal. He screamed as his fingers curled involuntarily, the skin on his hands pulling taut. He watched in horror as his nails darkened, lengthening into sharp, claw-like points. It felt as though blades were slicing through the tips of his fingers from the inside out before retracting back into his skin and taking a normal human appearence.

The sensation spread through his hands, the skin stretching and splitting in tiny, bloodless cracks that quickly healed over. His fingers elongated, becoming thicker and more muscular, transforming into something powerful and inhuman. He flexed them in terror, feeling an unfamiliar strength, but the sight made his stomach twist.

“Help me!” he begged, his voice raw and broken. “Somebody, please, make it stop!”

“Reconstructing limbs. Enhancing bone density and muscular structure.”

Nathan’s back arched violently, a sickening crunch echoing through the pod as his bones began to snap and realign. He felt his legs being pulled, stretching beyond their normal length. His femurs extended, each shift accompanied by a wet, grinding sound. The pain was unimaginable, like someone was using his bones as clay, molding them into a new shape.

He could feel the muscles in his legs tearing apart, only to regrow thicker and stronger. His calves bulged, cords of muscle coiling like thick ropes under his skin. He cried out as his toes spasmed, the bones lengthening, the nails hardening into black, pointed tips before retracting into normal nails. His feet, now larger and wider, curled involuntarily, digging into the padded floor of the pod.

Nathan looked down, choking on a sob. His legs had transformed into something monstrous, bulging with unnatural muscle.

“Restructuring torso and spine.”

The AI’s voice was cold and indifferent, barely audible over the sound of Nathan’s own screams. His spine snapped back into place, each vertebra popping out with a crack that made his teeth clench in agony. He felt himself being stretched, his torso elongating. His ribs expanded, pushing outwards, and he gasped for breath as his chest heaved.

Nathan’s chest convulsed violently, the skin rippling as new muscles formed. His pectorals swelled, tightening painfully as they reshaped into thick, defined slabs. His abs hardened, ridges of muscle surfacing under his skin. He could feel his armpits changing too, the skin roughening, dark hair sprouting where it had once been sparse. The musky, masculine scent filled the pod, overpowering his senses, making him gag.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I don’t want this…” His vision started to blur because of the pain he was going through. His breath was going faster and faster as he was on the edge of fainting.

“Facial reconstruction. Jaw modification and dental adaptation.”

The pain surged into his face next, a searing heat that made him squeeze his eyes shut. He felt his jaw dislocate, stretching wider, the bones shifting painfully. His cheekbones pushed forward, the sharp, angular lines giving him a more predatory look. He could feel his nose narrowing, the bridge lifting, as if invisible hands were sculpting his features into something sharper, more defined.

Nathan’s teeth ached, a dull pressure building in his gums. He whimpered as he felt them crack, shards dissolving as they were replaced by healthier, stronger, whiter teeth. His canines extended, grazing against his lower lip before retracting back into a more regular size. He opened his eyes, staring at his reflection into the glass of the pod in front of him, but the face looking back at him was barely recognizable. His eyes had changed too, the irises now a bright, piercing yellow, glowing with a predatory light before going back to a natural hazel hue, way different from his dark brown natural iris.

“Enhancing cardiovascular and respiratory systems.”

His heart thundered in his chest, the beat so loud it drowned out the voice of the AI. He could feel it pounding against his ribs, each thump like the strike of a hammer. His ribs expanded outward, making room for his new, larger lungs. He gasped for air, the cold rush filling his chest, making him shiver.

His breaths were deeper now, the air flooding into him with a force that felt unnatural. He could feel his lungs stretching, adapting to his altered body. Every inhalation carried a new scent, his own musk, pungent and raw, filled the confined space, mixing with the sterile smell of the pod.

“Modifying skin texture and body hair.”

Nathan’s skin prickled, a thousand needles dancing across every inch of his body. He watched in horror as thick, dark hair sprouted along his arms and legs. Then the same sensation appeared on his newly muscled pecs and in the middle of his abs as faint hair started to grow, almost invisible but yet very present. It grew rapidly, covering him head to toe. Nathan started to feel the tingling appeared at the end of his newly acquired happy trail. He tilted his head and realize with terror between his two new pecs that his groin started to grow dense thick, dark, curly hair. He used to always shave his groin because he didn’t like the sensation of hair down there, but now it was a thick forest of pubes that was growing on him. Nathan twitched, and he screamed as a new feeling appeared under his pubes. Nathan felt like someone just had sucker punched him in his balls and cock. He almost faints just from this sensation as out of nowhere, his balls started to grow, thicker and thicker, bigger and bigger. Then his cock started to lengthen and lost his skin as he became cut. His cock head started to grow and blood rushed into this newly acquired territory. He started to get hard and Nathan could see his cock rising through his pubes, his new cock head shining with pre and sweat as veins popped on its length. When it was done, Nathan now had a thick cut 9 inches cock always leaking pre in his pubes and making sure he would stink of cock and balls no matter where he would go. Nathan’s breath came in rapid, shallow gasps, his chest heaving as he tried to make sense of his new body. Every muscle throbbed, raw and overused, as if he had just been put through hours of excruciating labor. He felt strong, dangerously so, but the fear still gnawed at his mind, overriding the primal instincts now coursing through his veins.

He expected the lid of the pod to open, to release him into the room. But instead, the AI’s voice echoed again, colder than before.

“Transformation complete. Initiating digitization process.”

Nathan’s eyes widened. “What! no, no, wait!” He thrashed against the restraints with his new raspy lower voice, the mechanical arms still pinning him down, but they didn’t budge. The cold metal dug into his skin, pressing against his enhanced muscles.

A low hum filled the pod, and a sudden, intense vibration shook Nathan to his core. He felt something strange ripple through his limbs, a tingling that started in his fingertips and toes. He watched in growing horror as his new hands began to shimmer, small flecks of light dancing off his skin.

It felt like his very essence was being pulled apart, strand by strand. His fingers disintegrated into tiny particles, dissolving into pixels, the sensation a mixture of sharp stings and a numbness that spread like ice through his veins.

“Stop this! Please! What is happening! HELP!” he shouted, his voice breaking into a deep, unfamiliar growl. But the AI continued without pause, the hum growing louder.

“Digitizing subject. Uploading data to central system.”

Nathan screamed as his arms began to dissolve, pixel by pixel. He could see his own new muscles breaking apart into tiny cubes of light, his skin fading into strings of code, ones and zeroes. The sensation was like being ripped apart atom by atom, his very being siphoned off into the void. He felt himself getting lighter, parts of him vanishing into nothingness as a weird sensation of pleasure invaded him, making his cock twitch without him being to control it.

The disintegration crept up his torso, and he gasped as he felt his chest begin to disappear, the solid mass of his enhanced lungs dissolving into digital particles. He could see his reflection in the curved surface of the pod, his new face contorting in agony, sharp cheekbones framed by the fractured light of his fading form.

His legs were next, disappearing into a stream of data that spiraled upwards, sucked into a vacuum-like aperture at the top of the pod. Nathan struggled, but it was like fighting against a current pulling him under. He watched helplessly as his feet dissolved, feet and thick muscles reduced to nothing but streams of binary code.

“Don’t do this,” he whimpered as the sensation climbed up his legs and reached his new thick balls and cock. As it swallowed them, Nathan felt an orgasmic sensation invading him as he felt himself starting to cum handsfree. His cock spasmed and spasmed as its lengths disappeared in floating pixels, leaving spurts of cum resting on the remnants of his shattered clothes on the ground of the pod. His voice thin and fragile, the deep growl fading as his throat disintegrated. His vision blurred as his eyes turned into tiny squares of light, and the last thing he saw was the empty, padded interior of the pod, littered with the remnants of his shredded clothing and his fresh cum.

In the center of the room, a sleek, black computer tower hummed to life, the main screen flashing on. A progress bar appeared, filling slowly, labeled:

“Uploading Subject: Nathan Harper… Assigned File: Theo Raeken”

Nathan’s mind felt like it was spinning, tumbling through darkness. He couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t tell where he was. There was only the sensation of movement, like he was being pulled through a narrow, twisting tunnel. It was suffocating, the pressure building until it felt like his very consciousness might burst.

Then, with a jolt, everything stopped.

His eyes flew open, and for a moment, he couldn’t process what he was seeing. He was standing in the middle of a quiet street, bathed in the warm light of the setting sun. Tall pine trees loomed on either side, their shadows stretching long across the pavement. The air smelled crisp and clean, tinged with the scent of rain and forest. It was eerily familiar.

Beacon Hills.

Nathan’s heart raced, or at least, it felt like it should. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see the muscular, clawed digits from the transformation. Instead, they looked normal. No, not normal, different, but not monstrous. They were the hands of someone else.

He glanced at his reflection in a nearby car window. Sharp cheekbones, piercing hazel eyes, a confident smirk playing at the edge of his lips. It was the face of a good-looking young men.

“This isn’t possible,” Nathan whispered, but the voice that came out wasn’t his. It was deeper, smoother, dripping with a self-assured charm he’d never had. He tried to move his arm, but it only twitched, jerking unnaturally as if someone else were pulling the strings.

“Activating NPC protocols. Enhancing virility. Initializing behavioral script.” The AI’s voice rang out in his head, clear and commanding. Nathan’s entire body stiffened, his muscles locking into place. He could feel it, like invisible hands gripping his limbs, guiding him. Panic flared in his chest as he realized he couldn’t control his own movements anymore.

Then, right before his eyes, clothes shimmered into existence, tight jeans, a black bomber jacket, and a perfectly fitted shirt opened on his muscled and slightly hairy chest, completing the transformation. The reflection showed a polished version of himself, but it wasn’t finished. His cheeks tingled as a thin layer of stubble sprouted, adding a rugged edge that enhanced the cocky expression on his new face.

“No, no, stop!” he shouted internally, but his mouth didn’t move. His face was frozen in a smug, confident expression as his body turned, striding down the street with a purpose he didn’t feel.

It was like being a passenger in his own body, trapped behind a glass wall. He could see, hear, and feel everything, but he couldn’t move a muscle. He was a passenger now, watching helplessly as the script of his new life took over.

Nathan’s mind screamed against the cage of his new form, but it was drowned out by the flood of new directives and routines flooding his brain.

“Welcome to the Sensius: Teen Wolf Gay Fantasy experience,” the AI announced, its tone disturbingly cheerful. “You are now an integral part of the interactive environment. Follow your programming and enjoy this experience."

Nathan tried to shout, to claw his way out of this digital prison, but it was useless. His body, Theo’s body, smirked, tilting his head as he started to walk in the middle of the avenue untill he reached a secluded dimly lit street. He fell back on the wall and Nathan could feel power and dominance running in his blood; the anticipation, like an electric current humming beneath his skin. The AI talked once again, this time echoing through the whole game like if it was a scream in an empty cave. “NPC loaded and waiting for players to join the servers. Rebooting behaviors in 3,2,1…”

“Theo Raeken’s routines starting.” He heard his new voice talking inside his head and he realized he was trapped as Theo from now on until he found a way to free himself.

Nathan felt his lips part, words forming without his consent. “Well, look who we have here,” he heard himself say, Theo’s voice dripping with that familiar, charismatic arrogance as he grabbed his cock through his tight jeans. “Looks like you are happy to see me!” he continued as he licked his lips. “I’m gonna beat you so right, and so hard, until you cum for me, twice…”

Inside, Nathan’s voice had fallen silent, swallowed by the dark. He was trapped, a ghost inside the shell of Theo Raeken, forced to play his part in the game’s endless loop while feeling everything that his new body was programmed to.

The game had only just begun.

______________________________________________________________

Hello guys!

I hope you'll enjoy this new story. I've always been a HUGE fan of Teen Wolf, and I’ve gone back and forth for a long time about whether I wanted to publish something inspired by it on my page. But I think I’ve finally found the perfect way to do it. I hope you’ll love it!

As always, let me know what you think by sending DMs or messages in my inbox—I read everything.

Also, I wanted to apologize for not writing as much as I had planned for the Halloween event (Melorius's Shop). Real life got in the way, and I had to take a step back from everything. I’ll be even better prepared for the next season, and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as the first one, because yes, Melorius will return next year. ;)

In the meantime, see you soon with new stories, and take care of yourselves! Sensius Part 2 Sensius Part 3

[midseo]

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[edgar-allan-possum]

Bit of a sci-fi thing I've been working on. It's not much other than world-building tbh

...

"Midshipman Kerr, reporting for duty to Skit'tra Hiveship Abhorrent," I spoke into the small intercom next to the airlock, the only bit of clean plastic or metal on the ship's stony exterior. It hissed open and I stepped on board, ready to begin my new life among the stars.

The airlock was human design, of course. Skit'tra hiveships didn't dock with each other, and the "rockets" being specialized Skit'tra embedded in pits in the surface of the asteroids the ships were hollowed out from meant there was no exposed machinery to be damaged by debris strikes, so spacewalks were a minimal concern. They were standard feature on all ships carrying humans, though, just for that added level of safety.

A Skit'tra drone met me on the other side of the airlock. She, like all her species, was an insectoid with six limbs; four of which were used for walking, while the foremost pair could be used alternately as manipulator arms or extra legs when traversing difficult terrain. Her carapace was black with a hint of metallic purple, and bioluminescent yellow stripes ran down her sides. The pulse pattern of the stripes should have denoted her rank, but I was supposed to receive my training to differentiate the patterns on board.

She chittered, and the Head-Up Display in my goggles lit up with the translator readout.

"Greetings, Midshipman [UNTRANSLATABLE]," she said. I noticed she'd made a click and a trill that sounded like "Kerr" with a rolled "R" and wondered if one of the reasons I had been hired was because they could almost pronounce my name. "Your presence among the Abhorrent Kind is most appreciated."

She gestured for me to follow, and we set off through the tunnels of the hiveship. The walls and ceiling bore fresh marks showing where the passages had recently been enlarged so humans could comfortably traverse them. Wires connecting soft yellow lights were strung along the walls for visibility. The Skit'tra didn't need them, of course. They navigated their home by the scent of pheromones and the light of their own bioluminescence.

I switched on the speakers in my breath mask. "It's good to be here, and I'm looking forward to learning more about the Skit'tra," I said, the translator turning my speech into alien clicks and trills. "Do you..." I hesitated, hoping my question wouldn't be rude. "Do you have a name?"

"You are speaking directly to the Abhorrent Mind," the drone said. "Unlike humans, who have their own minds, I directly control all but a few of my children." Her light-stripes pulsed twice as another drone passed us going the other way, and the other drone lit up in return.

"This drone will be your guide and companion aboard the hiveship," she continued. "You may give her a name if you wish."

I nodded, then realized that the Abhorrent Mind may not know what that meant. While it had been in contact with humans for around ten years now, it had mostly been over radio waves until the hurried retrofit of the hiveship in the last year after the request for humans to live among them. In exchange, a few of the independently thinking Skit'tra had been sent to Earth.

"I'll have to think about a name," I said. I looked around the rocky corridor. "Where are we heading, anyway?"

"We are going for a tour of your solar system," the drone explained. "The scientists are eager to see the moons of Jupiter."

I laughed, the translator speakers buzzing with nonsense output. "Right, but where are we heading inside the hiveship?"

The drone cocked her head to one side and her light-stripes fluttered. I reminded myself not to anthropomorphize her. This wasn't embarrassment. She was just processing the new question.

"To the human quarters," she chittered. "We are almost there."

A few moments later, we rounded a corner and found a metal and glass door. Another airlock.

"Please enter," the drone said. "This drone will be waiting for you here when you exit."

"What will you... What will she do while I'm inside?" I asked.

"This drone will sleep," she said. "Another drone will bring this one food if it needs to eat. Please do not be concerned, Midshipman [UNTRANSLATABLE]."

I nodded and made a mental note to put my name in the translator's database as soon as possible. Stepping into the airlock, I waited for it to cycle before pulling off my breath mask and taking a lungful of good air. The exterior airlock was to make sure the hiveship was pressurized better than Skit'tra resin could keep it, but this airlock kept the good old Earth air separate from the alien air outside.

I made a quick check of all the systems, making sure everything was working properly before throwing myself on the nearest bunk and grinning up at the ceiling.

"Real space aliens!" I said aloud. Other humans would arrive later. There would be hard work, both mental and physical, before this voyage was up. But for the moment, I was the only earthling on a spaceship full of aliens.

[kabr0ztrousers]

Aliens have taken over and noticed just how hard all the women work to keep the human species going through their pregnancies. They decided that enough is enough and the men will begin to carry the pregnancies from today on! You're one of the first men who is taken (against his will) to go through the process of making your body a hospitable place for the baby. Lucky for you the process feels much nicer than you thought.

Kabr0z Writes episode 88: Turnabout

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: willing and informed consent; medfet; mpreg; weird science; aliens; body horror;

A/N: This one's a little shorter, but still worth the look. Also not sure exactly how to CW this one, so caveat emptor.

#####################################

The ships arrived without warning. NORAD spending billions of dollars to track the skies, and an armada of thousands of spacecraft appeared in the middle of the night. The first anyone knew about them was a shimmer in the air and a transmission across the world. Every channel, every screen, every language. They had been monitoring the Earth from afar, a hundred and thirty lightyears of communication, culture and art. Every symphony, every symposium, every failed sitcom, they've seen it. One thing stood out, throughout all of modern history, a throughline connecting every facet of the human experience:

Men are pigs

They didn't invade, not really. They took humankind under their wing, promised to usher you to the stars. There was only one stipulation: you, as a species, had to learn your lesson. Their method was simple: a whole generation would be borne by men.

You and your girlfriend had been planning to have a kid for months, but hadn't got lucky yet. The aliens guaranteed conception, and the contraceptive field they projected means the usual method wouldn't do the trick no matter how hard you tried. Sure didn't stop anyone trying.

The clinic was clean, and almost empty. Aggressively inoffensive muzak piped over the intercom, family planning magazines strewn on tables. The tannoy called your name. You stepped into the office.

A chair stood in the middle of the room, restraints gleamed on the arms and legs, waiting for you.

A voice came over the speakers in the room "Please undress and sit down"

You hesitated. Heart fluttering with anxiety

"Please undress and sit down"

You took off your jeans, then your shirt. The room was warm, even stood there naked. The chair didn't look any less intimidating.

"Please sit down"

So it wasn't just a recording. You eased yourself into the chair. It was covered in a cold plastic sheet. The cuffs closed over your wrists and ankles. Motors whirred under you, spreading your legs as a probe aimed itself at your rear.

The probe pressed against your hole, warmed by some interior heat source, and squirted a generous portion of lubricant onto you.

You tensed against it on reflex. The probe slid in easily, stretching your inexperienced ass as it sank into you.

"Procedure commencing. Please relax"

Relax, it said. The probe sank into you, the heat building as it vibrated against your prostate. Like someone turning on a tap, you started leaking immediately. It sank into the flesh inside you. Your cock leaked harder as the probe twisted and cut, expanding and manipulating.

You moaned, legs twitching as the probe cut a pouch into you. The searing heat cauterised as it went, before seeding tissue into your bowels, crafting an endometrial lining into the opening it made.

You felt your balls clenching, trying to press out every last drop of cum as the probe worked backwards. Every new inch of fertile womb it built inside you was accompanied by a fresh rush of pleasure, keeping you trapped in wave upon wave of bliss. You couldn't think, couldn't speak. All you could manage was to whine and leak, cum flowing from the tip of your flaccid cock as the machinery transformed you.

"Implanting zygote. Please stand by"

The probe latched on to the lining it had made, pressing out a frozen fertilised egg you'd seen prepared on a previous visit. One hundred percent human, naturally fertilised, with no artificial selection, as demanded by the alien's laws. It bound your child-to-be into your new womb, before sealing the entrance with a monitoring chip and a plug of fresh scar tissue.

The machine pulled out. The profound emptiness struck you. Your still lubed asshole winked with the last few clenches of your orgasm. Your limbs were released and you took a handful of wipes from a dispenser, cleaning yourself before putting your clothes back on. The door swung silently open and you stepped out, precious cargo on board.

Over the next months, the monitor implanted in you gave you regular updates. Your child was growing well, and healthy. Your ultrasounds came back promisingly. A human doctor was always on hand for a second opinion, not that he ever disagreed with the device implanted in you.

The day finally arrived. You waddled into the delivery room, and a set of mechanical arms set to work, cutting and grabbing, pulling your baby from your belly. It went to a midwife first, who checked its vitals, just a box-ticking exercise after the precision surgery, and handed it to you.

"Congratulations" she said "it's a girl"

####################################

Well

That went a bit more body horror than expected. One of these days, I'll just describe someone getting Compleated in an extremely graphic sequence, and at least one of you will get off to it.

I know I would

[ofmermaidstories]

Hi!!

Just wanted to let you know I've re-read for loke the 10nth time the seeing-deaths!reader×bakugo story and oh my god it's so good, it's one of my favorite stories ever

If you feel like it, have you ever thought about Bakugou's side of the story? Especially after the ending. I think the story is perfect as is and doesn't necessarely need a sequel but I often wonder about this Bakugo so I'd love to hear any of your thoughts if you feel like sharing them!

Anyway, love your writing and have a good day!

Xo

The ghost story. 🥺

I hadn’t actually sat down to think about how it would effect Bakugou, like, in-depth until mei-writes reblogged it and pointed out how devastating a loss would be for an older Bakugou, one who fought so hard to make through to the other side of his (in Mei’s brilliant words!!) inferiority complex and anger. 🥺 I said in reply that I thought Katsuki would like, throw himself into work until he broke, as a way of regaining some control/giving himself a distraction, but that it wouldn’t work. And it wouldn’t!! I think it would be an unholy drive, though; I always saw our killer as getting away that day (it’s why we die, it’s a distraction), and I don’t think Katsuki would give himself even a moment’s grace to process things. He’d just—immediately chase after him. Of course he has to. He failed to get this guy once, and look what hap—anyway. Don’t think about it, not now, get this bastard first. 

Katsuki would genuinely scare everyone who cares about him. Denki, Kirishima. Izuku. When Katsuki finally finds and corners the guy it’s like, idk, in some industrial real-estate, just a warren of warehouses and factory floors and empty parking lots. Katsuki’s been going 24/7, he’s running on fumes and fury, and this prick is like, making machinery and walls topple down in a spray of fine steel dust, piping hot concrete. Inorganic material that reacts to insane heat differently than—

You know, Katsuki’s always prided himself on how tightly controlled his explosions can be. On the discipline it takes. But like I said, he’s running on empty. He’s exhausted, he’s not letting himself think of why he’s here in some fucking shitty-ass industrial park, chasing down a fucker who’s laughter keeps echoing around these fucking buildings—so maybe he loses his temper. Maybe his explosions start rippling through warehouses and storage spaces with plastic containers of hazardous materials until he creates an inferno. Maybe, just maybe, when Izuku arrives (breathless, afraid, his jaw tightening when he finds Katsuki standing motionless in front of a blaze so high and hot it’s that the blond is shimmering with sweat, dripping like jewels) it’s too late.

Death during legal intervention. That’s the phrase used in the coroner’s findings. It’s shocking, and there’s some grumblings—by the press mostly, who brand Dynamight a danger to order and decency. Anti Pro-Hero groups arc up about it, and maybe a justice-system reform organisation pushes for actual punishment. But mostly the public forgives. The guy was dangerous. He killed people! There’s literally footage of it from multiple angles, it’s so horrific and sad. The looks on the victims faces, before it happens. Still. The Hero Commission can’t let it look like they don’t care about order—Katsuki’s on immediate leave, two months, half-pay. 

His friends are still scared. They enact the Sit-a-Chan system, babysitting Katsuki, making sure he doesn’t do anything crazy. He hates it—people in his fucking space when he doesn’t want them!! Deku’s the worst, he hovers, but Kirishima and his yapping is a close second. And then Denki—ugh. He’s the one that notices the extra toothbrush, in the bathroom. The little toiletry bag, wedged in between Katsuki’s shaver, some callous cream.

(Denki’s heart drops to his ass when he realises, and carefully—quietly, before Katsuki can notice his silence and get suspicious, he peers into Katsuki’s bedroom.

He doesn’t know what he’s afriad of finding—a lifesized mannequin of you, maybe, dressed up in your clothes or whatever, paint smeared on its face. But Katsuki’s room is neat and tidy, spartan almost, his bed made. 

There’s just—

Denki’s mouth thins, sad, when he sees it. On the end of Katsuki’s bed is a small pile of fresh laundry, neatly folded—all in colours Denki’s never, ever seen him wear.

“Got any plans for what you wanna do with the—with everything?” The asshole asks, suddenly, as Katsuki tries to ignore him by pretending to take a nap on the couch. 

It takes a moment for him to register what the walking charging pack is saying, his body recognising it before his brain, his chest immediately tightening at the words.

Fury jerks Katsuki upright. “If you’ve touched one fucking thing—”

But Denki’s hands are already up in surrender. “Nah! Nah man, I promise, I’m not gonna do anything.” There’s a beat between them, where Denki watches him, mouth shut before he says, very, very gently, “No one’s gonna force you to do anything. I’m just—curious. Izuku said you’d met with… with the mother. Of both of them.”

Talking to Kacchan is a lot like talking a tiger, at times; red, feline eyes staring at Denki unblinkingly, untrusting, until they cut away to the kitchen, his table. The expression on his face doesn’t change, but Denki can only guess what he’s thinking of. Who’s he’s thinking of. 

“There’s nothin’ to do,” Katsuki says, eventually, voice hard. “Whatever’s here is it.” 

Denki nods. Your apartment, your belongings—your mother probably dealt with all that. Suddenly he realises just how little his friend has of you. A folded pile of clothes. A toothbrush. Time.)

Two months is a lot of downtime for a man who’s used to saving the country regularly. The things left in Katsuki’s apartment move around, like your restless ghost is unsure of where to leave them, Katsuki’s restlessness unsure. There’s nothing of value to them and your Mother had shaken her head when Katsuki had mentioned that he—that you—that he had a few things of yours, if they were important—

But still. He doesn’t know what to do with them. The book you were reading slips in among his own, sticking out like a baboon’s ass. He hands up your cardigan in his wardrobe—just to get it out of the way, he tells himself. The bag of your skincare and shit—an italian handcream, a lip balm, moisturiser, some other things—still sit behind his mirror, where he sees it every day.

He doesn’t tell anyone when he leaves the city, your little toilet bag shoved in his dufflebag, unceremoniously thrown in the backseat of his car, sleek and black and shinning under the city lights as he drives. It’s the closest you’ll get to leaving the damn place, together; though Katsuki doesn’t let himself think that. 

Your Mother, when Katsuki had met her, had almost seemed—resigned. Not surprised.

“It’s been hard,” she’d told him, his skin prickling uncomfortably. “Not just—not just this. But… but being unable to help throughout everything. Did you—did the two of you ever talk about… about your quirks?” 

Katsuki had shaken his head, his jaw locking. He had always assumed you were quirkless; you had always avoided the conversation. 

Your Mother had swallowed. Nodded. “If you ever… if you’re ever our way, back home, please—please call in. It would mean a lot.”

To her. To you, maybe, if you’d still been here. To Katsuki too, though it’s harder for him to admit to himself. 

He drives through the night to your hometown, the sun rising when he finally makes it, pulling in off the road, just up on a hill that overlooks the town lights below. It’s a chilly morning; Katsuki leans against his car, scuffing at the gravel under his boots as he shoves his hands in his pockets. Maybe he’ll get some answers here. Some insight into what was going on in there, behind those big, unsure eyes you’d sometimes look at him with. 

(He does, and he doesn’t. Your mother has pictures of you, ready, when he makes it. You in highschool with a tall, redheaded boy that’s all grins. You as a small kid, with an older, smiling woman, round and soft-looking. 

Your mother is silent as she watches Katsuki take them in. 

“They’re all gone, now,” she tells him, when Katsuki eventually glances back to her. 

You and your collection of ghosts. Your mother tells him what she knows, and it’s not everything—but he thinks he finally begins to understand.)