#full code medical simulation

[hkcomplex]

learning a lot about patient care today

[whitneybae]

[lightasthesun]

Comprehensive Lexicon Guide for First-Time SW Fic Readers:

Flimsi/Flimsiplast = Paper

Flimsiwork/Datawork = Paperwork

Stylus = Pen

Datapad = Tablet

Comlink/Comm = Communication Device/Phone

Binders = Handcuffs

Chronometer = Clock

Spectacles = Eyeglasses

Chrono = Watch

Conservator = Refrigerator

Caf = Coffee

Nerfburger = Hamburger

Blue milk = Milk (literally blue)

Hubba chips = French Fries

Sweet roll = Doughnut

Flatcakes = Pancakes

Tabac = Tobacco

HoloNet = World Wide Web

Holovision/HoloTV = Television

Holodrama/Holovids = Movie/Videos

Holocamera/Holocam = Camera

Holomap = three-dimensional map

Holojournal = Newspaper

Holocube = Picture frame

Holotable = Projector

Holoscanner = X-ray machine

Holojournalist = Reporter

Flatholo/Holograph = Photograph

Sonic Damper = Active Noise Cancellation

Refresher/Fresher= Bathroom

Sonic Bath = Bath

Sanisteam/Sonic shower = Waterless Shower

Hydrospanner = Wrench

Hydro Flask = Water Bottle

Power Cell/Energy Cell = Batteries

Authorization Chip = Decryption key

Datatape = Disk

Datastick = Flash drive

(Personal) Com Code = Phone number

Datachip = SD Card

Synthflesh = Synthetic skin

Glowrod = Flashlight

Sparkstick = Match

Slugthrower = Gun

Slug = Bullet

Vibroblade = a blade that can vibrate at high frequencies, increasing its cutting power and penetrating ability (tactical knife)

Rangefinder = Rifle scope

Turbolaser = Cannon

Ion pike/Vibropike = Spear

Electro Staff = Stun baton

Blaster = Pistol/Rifle

Stun Blaster = similar to a Taser

Landspeeder/Airspeeder/Speeder = Car

Turbolift = Elevator

Slideramp = Escalator

Starfighter = Fighter jet

Rotorcraft = Helicopter

Hoverpack/Jetpack= Jet pack

Speeder Bike = Motorcycle

Skylane = Traffic lane

Railspeeder/Hovertrain = Train

Power Chair/Hoverchair= Wheelchair

Windscreen = Windshield

Podracing = Car racing

Dejarik = Chess

Sabacc = Poker and Blackjack combined

Galactic Rebels = Combat simulator

B'shingh = Dungeons and dragons

Jizz = Jazz music

Wailer = Singer (ie. Jizz Wailer)

Cantina = Bar or Pup

Para Sailing = Paragliding

Aurebesh = Alphabet

Credits = Money

Sleeping Pallet = Bedroll

Naming Day = Birthday

Youngling = Child

Galactic Basic Standard/ Basic = English

Medkit/Medpac = First aid kit

Hypo = Syringe

Medic/Healer = Doctor

Medcenter = Hospital

Bactapatch = Bandaid

Nanoweave = Fabric

Transparisteel = Glass

Plastifoam = Packing material

Durasteel = Steel

Plasteel = Plastic

Duracrete = Concrete

Slicer = Hacker (slicing = hacking)

Identikit = Passport

Minder = Therapist

Synthleather = Vinyl

Viewport = Window

Cooling Unit = Air-conditioning

Honeydarter = Bee

Slythmonger = Drugdealer

Spice = Drugs

Stimpill = Caffeine pill

Power Socket = Plug

Cutters = Scissors

Cycle = Day

Standard Cycle = 24h

Standard Week = 5 days

Standard Month = 35 standard days

Standard Year = approx. ten months

Tenday = literally ten days

Cigarras/Smokes = Cigarettes

Click = Kilometer or 'a moment'

Parsec = a unit of distance

Tweezers/Clanker/tin head/tinnie = Droid

Separatist = Seppie

Promise Ring = Wedding Ring

Body Glove = Jumpsuit

Slicksuit = Wet suit

Civvies = Civilian clothing

Carbonite = a metal alloy used to freeze a person in a state of hibernation

Hyperdrive = device that allows a starship to travel faster than lightspeed

Moisture vaporator = device that can extract water from the air, commonly used on tatooine

Glareshades = Sunglasses

Gasser = Gas Oven

Repulsorlift = technology that can create an anti-gravity field and is used for levitating heavy objects

Heating unit = Heater

Utility Droid = Roomba

Sunbonnet = a Clone trooper helmet

Bad Batcher = a defective Clone Trooper

Banthabrain = birdbrain/ a stupid person

Bantha fodder = waste of space/nonsense

Blast! = word of exclamation

Blasted! = s.o in anger or annoyance

Blaster-brained = dimwitted

Blaster fodder = cannon fodder

Blast off = Piss off

Brainless = Stupid

Bug/Bugger = used to refer to Geonosians

Forceforsaken = godforsaken

Full of Poodoo = full of shit

Poodoo = Shit

Kriff = Fuck

Jedi scum = derogatory term for jedi

Kark = derogatory expletive

Larty = LAAT/i gunship

Laserbrain = insult

Meat droid = derogatory term for Clone Troopers

Redrobes = Palpatines guard

Rookie/Shinie = newly recruited Trooper

Scum = insult to refer to bounty hunters/rebels

Sharpie = Sharp-witted

Sithspawn/Sithspit/Hellspawn! = expletive

Sleemo = Slimeball

Son of a bantha = insult

Wizard! = Cool

Spaced = dead

Hutt-spawn = Bastard

Karabast = exclamation of dismay

Stang = Crap

Buckethead/Bucketbrain = derogatory term for Stormtroopers

Bucket = Helmet

Nat-born = Natural Born

Roger Roger = affirmative/copy that

Droid poppers = EMP grenade

Sitrep = short for situation report

Backwater Planet = any planet that isn't part of the core system

Holocron = device that can project a three-dimensional image of a person/object and is used for communication or entertainment.

Kessel Run = a risky Operation. Commonly used as a metaphor in impossible situations.

Thermal Detonator= device that can create a powerful explosion like a grenade or bomb

Ray Shield/Energy Shield = creates a (protective) barrier

Rebreather = device that allows a person to breathe underwater or in toxic environments

Phrases:

Wild goose chase = wild bantha chase

That's bantha shit = that's bullshit

As slippery as a greased Dug = untrustworthy

Credit for your thoughts = penny for your thoughts

Cut the poodoo = cut the crap

to get your gills in a twist = get upset about something

Holy mother of meteors = holy mother of god

Oh my skies/ Oh my stars = exclamation of surprise

Stars' end! = exclamation of disbelief

What in the blue blazes = exclamation

When Geonosis freezes over/When it snows on tatooine = extremely unlikely

Who pissed in your power supply = who pissed you off

Blast it = damn it

By the maker = exclamation of surprise

Great karking Dragon = expression of disbelief

Lothcat got your tongue = equivalent of 'cat got your tongue?'

Sod it = expression of frustration

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

okay hiii i heard requests were open so i thought i'd try, first off i love your writing so much, when i tell you it moves me to tears im not exaggerating so i havent read the comics so bare w me please 🥹🤍 idk if you do OCS, if you do could it be about a woman called thea, if not fem y/n or however you feel comfortable doing it basically this girl is a medical student studying to be a doctor, dating richard (dick) grayson/ nightwing, and it's kind of angsty, she sees hi injured, rushes in and patches him up- dangerous, stakes are high, maybe she could ever get injured too in the process? just a thought! love ur work, and absolutely no pressure for this request 🤍🥹

Aw you're so sweet💜💜💜

Pretty High Stakes

Injured! Dick Grayson x Medschool! Reader

Warnings: Graphic injury, trauma, blood, panic, emotional breakdown, language

You knew the risks when you fell for him.

When you let him kiss you with bruised lips and bloodied knuckles. When you let his hands cup your face even though they'd been breaking ribs hours before. When you chose to stay—not just in his life, but in his world.

But nothing prepares you for this.

Not med school. Not emergency rotations. Not any of the hellish scenarios you’d run through in simulation labs. Because this wasn’t a controlled environment with crash carts and proper lighting.

This was a filthy Gotham alley at 1:17 in the morning, and the man you loved was bleeding out in your arms.

You’d only been part of the mission in the smallest way. Remote first aid support, coordinating through Oracle, helping ID the traffickers. Dick hadn’t even told you the full details, just that he “had it handled.” You’d believed him—until his comm went dead.

That silence had cut through you like a scalpel.

Now your shoes splashed through dirty puddles as you sprinted toward the last coordinates. Every second felt like glass dragging through your chest. Your breath caught when you finally rounded the corner and saw him.

Dick.

His suit was torn open along his ribs, blood pouring out in terrifying waves. His body was crumpled like a marionette whose strings had been severed. His head lolled to the side. One escrima stick was still in hand, the other abandoned a few feet away.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Then instinct slammed through you like lightning. You hit your knees beside him, skidding on the wet pavement. “Dick—Dick!”

His eyes fluttered weakly. One barely opened, revealing his near-lifeless baby blue. “Sweetheart...?”

“I’m here,” you said, voice trembling. “Jesus, Dick, what—what the hell happened?”

"Got… the kids out,” he rasped. “Three of them. They’re safe.”

You pressed your coat against the gaping wound at his side. Blood soaked through instantly. Your stomach turned, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t afford to. “Focus on me,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re okay. Just—keep your eyes open.”

“Couldn’t call,” he murmured. “Comm—busted.”

“You should’ve waited.” Your tone wavered somewhere between fury and despair. “You always do this. Always push too hard, too far—”

“No time,” he said. “They were gonna move them. I had to—”

You gritted your teeth, adjusting your weight to apply more pressure. He let out a low groan that hit you like a bullet.

“I’m calling Oracle,” you whispered. Your fingers, slick with blood, fumbled for your phone. You activated the encrypted emergency line. The screen was blurred by rain and tears. “Oracle. Code Nightfall.”

Barbara’s voice came through instantly. “Where’s Nightwing?”

“Down. Severely wounded. Multiple lacerations. Stab wound to the abdomen. He’s going into shock.” Your voice caught. “I need med-evac. Now. 9th and Haven.”

“I’ve got you,” she said, calm but urgent. “Stay with him. ETA four minutes.” You threw the phone aside and turned back to him. His skin was pale. His lips tinged blue.

“Stay awake,” you begged, clutching his hand like you were the one dying. “Please.”

His fingers curled weakly around yours. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You let out a laugh that was half a sob. “Well, too late. And you still look stupidly handsome, you reckless idiot.”

A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. Then his body seized.

Your heart stopped. “Dick!”

He coughed, and blood spattered against your neck. You scrambled to clear his airway, lifting his head just enough to tilt it, trying not to scream.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered over and over, as if repetition could bend reality. “You’re not dying. Not here. Not tonight.”

You heard the Batwing before you saw it—the roar of engines slicing through the storm. Bright searchlights bathed the alley in pale blue. The dropship’s doors opened mid-hover. Medics in Wayne-Tech armor repelled down before the skids even touched pavement.

You didn’t want to move. You didn’t trust anyone else to touch him. But you had to.

“He’s going into hypovolemic shock,” you barked at the lead medic. “Massive blood loss. Suspected liver laceration. He needs blood and surgery. Now.” They didn’t question you. They moved fast. Intubation. Fluids. Vitals. A hard collar. They cut through his suit while stabilizing his spine. You helped strap him to the gurney. His blood was everywhere.

He was still conscious—barely. He almost couldn't rasp out your name.

You bent close. Rain soaked through your scrubs as you practically cradled him to your chest, mindful of every painful wound inflicted upon his body. “I’m here.”

“Love you.”

Your breath caught. Your hands trembled. You’d said it before, once, quietly. He never had. Until now. Until this. Until he was dying in your arms in the middle of a filthy alleyway. “I love you too,” you whispered. “So stay alive and say it again when I’m not covered in your blood.”

He gave a barely-there nod before his eyes fluttered shut.

Masterlist

[nanamineedstherapy]

Literally cannot wait for the next chapter to drop!! Please post it soon so I don’t end up sneaking chapters at work again.</3

Thank you for reading it all Pookie, my sincere apologies for the delay. I'm unfortunately a perfectionist and needed to add more details to make it real. Hope you enjoy it :)

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage. Trigger/Crack Warnings: Graphic Violence, Emotional Abuse, Medically accurate Pain/Injuries Horror (yes, I do alot of research), pregnancy complications, Weaponized Guilt, Mentions of Rape (past, non-graphic), Psychological Manipulation, Mild Suicide Ideation (implied), Brainrot-Inducing Dialogue, Reader May Require Therapy After This, Emotional Damage Simulator 2025, Sukuna is Down Bad – Yuji said so, Mafia CEO AU (kinda), Reader is So Tired, Found Family? Or Found Emotional Damage?, Gojo Satoru's Consequences, Nanami Kento Deserves a Nap & to be able to pee in peace without his wife+husband combo broadcasting it, Unhinged Girlboss Reader, Murder as Romance, This chapter is a war crime. Trillionaire Tech Wife With Two Useless Men, Emotional Support Chicken. A/N: I feel like the reader is the biggest comedian in this series, tbh lol. Like??? She's fighting for her life, trauma bonding with eldritch horrors, & still has time to serve face & sarcasm in the same breath. Queen behaviour. Honestly, if I were her, I too would commit crimes while sipping Sprite out of a hospital cup. POOKIE SUKU IS HERE!!!!

Previous Chapter 23 (alt ending 2.14) - How the Salt in Our Wounds Was the Ocean - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Chapter 24 (alt ending 2.15) - Shattered Constellations

Aftermath | Their POV

They called her mortal.

They forgot she was trained by monsters.

Hour One

Nanami burned through every Tokyo contact. Then called Anna Wintour.

"Who did she meet tonight?"

There was a pause. The silence that comes when too many people are in the room, and you suddenly realise you’re the prey.

Anna’s tone was clipped, as ever. “Kento.”

“Anna. She’s missing. We can’t find her.”

“You must be very upset.”

“Who did she meet today? What was the investor’s name?”

“I was told if I revealed that name, if I tell you anything about her movements without her consent, I’ll be dead before the phone line disconnects. And you—you won’t even know who killed me.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not about control. I think she’s in danger.”

Silence. Not even the buzz of static.

“Goodnight, Mr. Nanami.”

The Koenigsegg Jesko had been the first to betray them.

It shouldn’t have.

It was registered to her company but custom-built by Megumi’s black-ops R&D. Eight embedded trackers—nano chips, tyre sensors, two voice AI failsafes. The works.

But one by one, the signals blinked out like dying stars.

First, the GPS. Then the emergency LTE backup.

Then the engine monitor started sending Morse-code gibberish, as though something inhuman had possessed the car.

“She cut the battery?” Megumi asked, horrified.

The smoke alarms were disabled.

The flames were superficial, controlled—nothing damaged except the bed, the mattress soaked in Tom Ford and Dior and spite. Nanami didn’t smell arson. He smelled intent.

Megumi’s team—your personal security detail, his people—had been scrambled into a full lockdown.

“She shut down the internal feeds,” he gasped, crouched on the cold marble. “Her penthouse went dark mid-step. She disabled the elevator cam.”

“She shouldn’t even be able to do that,” Gojo said, eyes flashing cerulean. “The feed’s encrypted.”

“She built the system,” Nanami added quietly.

Gojo activated the Six Eyes at a higher altitude.

He’d only ever used them like this twice—once, back when they were hunting the remnants of the Star Plasma cult. Back when Geto still— And the second time was when he was trying to find you in your home country when you’d disappeared after the gaming convention.

Nanami was watching the flame flicker and die in Gojo’s face.

Gojo balled his fists in frustration. “Why can't I see her? There’s no cursed energy hiding her. She’s not suppressing her aura. She’s not using a veil or a curse technique—she can’t. She’s just a normal woman!”

“No.” Nanami corrected coldly. “She’s lived with you for years, and you talk alot about your conquests, Satoru. By now it’d be a miracle if she didn’t figure out how to counter you, given the way she is – all or nothing.”

Hour Two

“She’s still not showing up,” Megumi whispered.

Not on satellite. Not on traffic cams. Not even on Gojo’s six eyes, which were burning as he stood barefoot on the balcony, sweat crystallizing on his cheekbones.

“No cursed energy signatures,” Gojo muttered. “No barriers. No pings.”

“She’s not a sorcerer,” Haibara said, leaning against the glass. “She’s just angry.”

“She’s not just anything,” Nanami half-yelled, eyes scanning five monitors showing nothing but static. “She disappeared mid-day. Mid-breath. That’s not normal.”

The Jesko went through one toll booth. Then stopped showing up.

Gone. No transponders. No speed violations. No tyre marks.

“Tracker’s off,” Megumi said, barely keeping it together. “All of them. Phone, car, security fob, coat lining. Gone.”

“She’s still wearing the tracker from last week's security update,” Nanami muttered, clicking on her medical vitals screen.

"Not anymore," Haibara said, holding something bloody in his hand. A tiny sliver of metal he'd found on the toll booth she’d disappeared from. "She cut it out. Used the same blade she cut me with."

"Was she bleeding?" Gojo snapped, voice shrill.

"Not when she bit me. After? Who knows."

Hour Three

They stood in the war room.

Screens everywhere. Her last known locations. Holograms. Pulse tracking. Voice AI failed prompts.

A red string corkboard in a glass room.

Haibara, biting into an apple like it might be poisoned.

Megumi, rocking back and forth, hands pressed to his skull.

Nanami, silent.

Gojo pacing like an animal.

“She fucking ghosted us,” Haibara laughed like the irony was too much.

“She can’t ghost the Six Eyes,” Gojo muttered. “I’ve found people in other dimensions. She can’t—she’s not supposed to be able to—how is she doing this?”

“She’s deleting herself,” Megumi whispered. “Not hiding. Erasing.”

They all turned to him.

He kept staring at the floor. “You don’t know what she’s capable of when she feels cornered. You don’t know what she learnt from my father. Hell, even I never really knew what they talked about.”

Hour Four

Your location-shared signal blipped once.

A rural highway. Eastbound. Then silence.

“She left it on just long enough for someone else,” Haibara murmured. “Not us.”

Gojo slumped to the ground, blindfold in his fist.

Security teams deployed.

Megumi’s own private elite—trained to hunt rogue sorcerers—went silent within thirty minutes. They followed a false signal to the western district. Found nothing but a pile of burner phones duct-taped together.

It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be.

Haibara laughed, unwrapping the bandage on his bitten hand. “God, I love her. Bites like a jackal.”

“Shut up,” Nanami hissed.

“She’s fucking incredible.”

“Shut up.”

“She could’ve been a serial killer.”

Gojo slammed him against the wall. “Shut. Up.”

“Are we trying to find her or fight each other!” Megumi yelled, and Gojo backed off with a grunt from a smirking Haibara after a beat.

Hour Five

“She was smiling when she lit the bed on fire,” Haibara whispered, staring at the footage one of Megumi’s corrupted drones caught before she destroyed it.

The flames danced across your face like a rite. You looked holy. Like a woman who knew God personally and had decided He wasn’t worth the apology.

And none of them—not even the strongest sorcerer alive, not the meticulous executioner, or the boy born of a cursed blessing, or the resurrected demon from society’s trash heap—

None of them could stop you.

Because you weren’t human anymore.

Hour Six

They found a lead.

Not from tech. Not from tracking.

From blood.

Haibara licked his injured hand, still oozing from her bite. He stared at it. Smiled.

“She didn’t take the knife to hurt herself. She took it to threaten us. And this? This isn’t desperation.”

“What was the reason then?” Gojo whispered, eyes burning from overuse.

“It’s theatre. She left us a trail. Just enough to make us panic. Just enough to remind us…” He looked at Gojo, gaze gleaming like a blade.

“…That she’s smarter than all of us combined.”

And somewhere, far beyond their reach, in an untraceable place with prepaid electricity and blackout curtains, you stared at your own reflection.

Still. Silent. Pregnant. Waiting.

Then you peeled back your coat. Checked your stomach. Ran your fingers over the black bruise near your ribs—where the babies kicked too hard in your stress while you were pulling out the car batteries.

You weren’t safe. Not really.

A phone ping.

Mom: Flight's delayed a little further. Get yourself food but stay away from view.

Hour eight

“Why can’t I fucking see her?” Gojo demanded again, voice rising. He was glowing faintly now, like a sun left to rot in a glass coffin. “I can see everyone. I can see through walls. Why not her?”

“Because you don’t know her,” Haibara said without looking up from his phone.

The words dropped like a knife.

Gojo turned. Nanami didn’t stop him.

“You wanna say that again?”

“You don’t know her. You know the woman who cooked for you and sucked your cock and gave you children you aren’t worthy of. You don’t know the girl who broke her own jaw so her cousins wouldn’t rape her again. Or the girl who lived under a bed with rats and still makes Blackrock shudder. The one who cried blood the night you came on each other right next to her sleeping body.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched, hard enough to hear a faint crack.

Haibara kept going. “You didn’t even know she was pregnant. You called her bipolar. Your little baby killers club didn’t tell her shit.”

Megumi punched Haibara out of nowhere, and the latter straightened back up like an unkillable pest, spitting the blood from his lip tear.

Megumi yelled, “If you can’t be bothered to help, then get lost.”

“I am helping.” Haibara smirked, “By laughing at them.”

Megumi eyed him suspiciously. “You know who she called, don’t you?”

Haibara smirked.

---

Before the meeting with the investor and the subsequent disappearance—

You’d barely slept.

Not because of discomfort, though your swollen ankles and the relentless ache in your lower back would’ve justified it. No, sleep had eluded you because of them—the disasters you somehow forgave, loved, and carried children from. After months of icy silences, bruised egos, and walking on eggshells sharpened by betrayal, a night last week had finally broken the drought.

Satoru cried five times. That you know of.

The first time was silent—his face buried in the curve of your neck, a hand trembling on your side, like he thought if he held too tight, you’d vanish. The second was louder, gasping, muttering apologies into your skin like they were spells. By the third, he’d woken you up entirely, whimpering as he clung to you in his sleep, kneading the soft swell of your hip like a needy white tiger. The fourth came when you cupped his face and kissed his lashes and whispered, “I missed you.” And the fifth—well, that one came when he was already inside you.

Slow. Soft. No cocky grin, no teasing flick of his tongue. Just desperate Satoru with tears slipping down his cheeks and his forehead pressed to yours, as if he were scared that blinking might separate you again.

Kento didn’t cry.

But he looked at you like a ghost. Like if he blinked, he’d wake up so he’d woken before either of you, face buried in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse like he was checking you were still warm. There was no ceremony to it—he was already hard, already leaking against your thigh. His hand curled protectively over your bump, reverent, steady, like he was anchoring himself to proof that this—all of this—was real.

You don’t remember how it started. Only that your hormones had made you wet and half-dazed. Satoru had slid inside you without even waking properly, moving in that lazy, sleep-drunk way he always did when overwhelmed. You'd been too sensitive lately—your body a minefield of electric nerves—and soon you’d ended up on Kento’s lap, Gojo moving behind you while Kento’s cock rested hot and hard under your soaked folds, rubbing him and you off.

It wasn’t pornographic. It was tender. Messy, yes. But real.

Your arms around Kento’s shoulders. Satoru's hand splayed over your belly like a talisman, anchoring you so as not to hurt the twins. The low, breathy sounds you made when Kento pressed kisses under your jaw, whispering that you were beautiful. Sacred. A miracle.

You moaned so sweetly that Kento chuckled low in his throat, eyes closed, face tilted to the ceiling in something like prayer.

Then came the chaos.

You were so lost in the rhythm that you didn’t notice Satoru getting bolder—until he grabbed Kento’s thigh and tried to shift his leg up in a mating press. Kento’s leg jerked with surprise, and he just snorted. Loudly.

“I’m not a yoga mat,” he groaned, covering his eyes with one arm, stifling his laugh.

You burst out laughing. And felt it in your ribcage, like someone was letting light back into your lungs.

Satoru paused mid-thrust, blinked, then looked sheepishly between the two of you.

“Well, you both keep trying to get me pregnant, so this is me turning the tables,” he said, deadpan, then he kept thrusting.

Kento’s laugh shook the bed.

You turned and kissed Satoru—salt and saliva and need—and then turned and kissed Kento, who looked more in love than he’d ever admit. For a second, the three of you just stayed like that. Tangled. Breathing. Full of each other.

By the time the sun climbed over the skyline, you were dozing again between them, skin sticky, sheets tangled, legs heavy. The morning routine happened in sacred silence—no fights, no tension. Just Kento helping you into your dress while Satoru brushed your hair, quiet and reverent, as if caring for you was penance and prayer combined.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “You look powerful,” he whispered.

Kento kissed your wrist, slipping your wedding ring back on after cleaning it. “And the mother of my children.”

“Mine too,” Satoru chimed in.

“You’re such a narcissist,” Kento said.

“So are you,” Satoru shot back, smiling now, eyes clear.

You rolled your eyes, heart full.

This was what peace looked like. No chaos. No yelling. Just the quiet, perfect calm that came when everyone chose to stay.

You had ten minutes before take-off. Your phone buzzed.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, depending on what he wants and the flight time,” you promised, turning at the door.

They both followed you—of course they did. Satoru tugged your hand. Kento wrapped his arm around your shoulders. They walked you to the elevator like you were made of glass and gold and unspeakable power.

You kissed Satoru first. Then Kento.

They both held your gaze as the doors closed. You caught Satoru mouthing I love you. Kento didn’t speak, but his expression was the same one he’d worn when you walked down the aisle.

The last thing you heard before the metal doors shut was Satoru murmuring, “Call me if there’s even an ounce of doubt. I’ll teleport you out.”

And Kento’s quiet, unwavering, “Keep the life vitals tracker on and call me once you land.”

---

The jet was quiet, save for the muted purr of climate control and the occasional shift of turbulence against steel. You’d boarded at noon—twenty minutes ahead of schedule—surrounded by a sixteen-person armed security detail and your logistics assistant, who kept glancing at your ankles like they might explode mid-flight.

She asked if you were comfortable three times before takeoff. Like she was stalling. Like the jet wasn’t just taking you to New York, but to the guillotine.

Anna hadn’t sent the jet. He had.

The new investor. No name, just gravity. A black hole in the shape of a man—silent, never photographed, but powerful enough that Anna had stumbled over her sentence when his assistant called.

When you’d first told Nanami about the request for an in-person, he’d exhaled like a loaded gun. Pressed his hand to his forehead and muttered, “Can’t we just kill him?”

He wasn’t joking. He spent the next three hours building worst-case flowcharts in that calm, terrifying way he did—like even apocalypse could be optimized.

Satoru had stopped joking altogether. That was worse.

Takahashi, at least, had behaved for his first flight. Curled at your side in a little albino ball of privilege, snoozing through turbulence like he was made of clouds and sedatives. You kept stroking the patch between his ears. It soothed nothing, but pretending helped.

Across from you sat a PR assistant barely old enough to rent a car. Her eyes kept flicking to your bump like it might blink back. “You don’t look that pregnant,” she offered hesitantly.

You smiled, didn’t answer.

Because it wasn’t the look of it. Never had been. It was the feeling—like your body was being rewritten in a language you didn’t speak. Nights were the worst. The way the skin moved—too fluid, like something inside was stretching out. Like it wanted more room.

Scans didn’t capture that. Machines didn’t feel the slow-shifting horror of cartilage loosening, knees dislocating if you stood too long, lungs compressed to the size of childhood grief. The doctors said miracle. You said miscalculation.

You’d worn red today. A deep, cruel red. It felt… appropriate for some odd reason.

---

Vogue Private Office — Manhattan

The orchids were wilting by the door. You walked in like the third act of a tragedy—heels cracking marble like closing statements.

The staff didn’t question you. They swung the lobby doors wide, as if bracing for a storm in stilettos.

Inside, the air clung with the scent of dying flowers and fragile wealth. Glossy surfaces, curves designed to look expensive, chairs meant to be admired, not sat in. They led you to a glass-walled suite where the city still bent to your silhouette—even if your shares never did for them.

You folded yourself into the seat, spine negotiating with memory. Accommodations were never an option.

Anna was late.

Of course.

When her heels finally announced her, you didn’t rise. Couldn’t, really—not with the way your body had begun to betray you, bone grinding against bone.

She stood haloed by light, a magazine-cutout of power, her smile sharp with the arrogance of someone who still believed timing was a weapon.

“You glow,” she said. “Like women do before they’re devoured.”

“Unmedicated,” you replied.

Her grin widened, all teeth and conquest. “We’ll keep this clean. You know why you’re here.”

You blinked, slow.

“The new investor wants your story. The twins. The empire. The marriage. He thinks your silence is sinking your company.”

One of the twins kicked—hard enough to fracture breath. Lately, it didn’t feel like movement. It felt like revolt.

Anna tapped her nails against the table. “How are the husbands?”

You exhaled.

“Protective. Armed. Near breaking.”

She tilted her head. “Would they die for you?”

You mirrored her.

“They already did.”

A pause. Her eyes flickered—assessing whether it was poetry or prophecy.

Then, the ice of her smile.

“Now that,” she murmured, “is a Vogue quote.”

Soon enough they led you through a corridor so silent it felt like something had been sacrificed to keep it that way.

No corporate logos. No gaudy art. Just sharp edges, sliding doors, and the kind of air that had passed through too many purifiers. The kind that made you feel sanitized, surgically so. You were shown into a tea room so traditional it bordered on uncanny for New York—tatami mats, shoji screens, and incense coiling faintly in the corners like an old ghost. For a second, you thought it might be a set. A psychological stage.

And then he walked in like a theory made flesh. The kind of man who survived the apocalypse by looking like prophecy.

He wasn’t what you’d expected.

Long raven hair swept back into a precisely tied half-bun. He wore a form-fitting black turtleneck beneath a long trench coat, the fabric whispering as he moved. Polished leather shoes. No noise. No dust. The kind of outfit that commanded attention without asking for it—quiet, curated power. His face was too symmetrical to be trustworthy, his skin untextured in that uncanny, expensive way. No jewelry except for a Rolex that said old money or old blood.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Geto Suguru.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Geto,” you shook his hand briefly. “You’re very composed for someone hiding behind NDAs and empty LinkedIn profiles.”

He smiled, unfazed. “I don’t like being photographed. It makes it harder to disappear when people disappoint me.”

You blinked and filed that away.

Another man stepped in—vaguely inbred in posture and temperament. The kind of man who inherited his surname like a loaded weapon. He poured tea like it was beneath him.

You didn’t need an introduction to know what he was.

Zenin.

Naoya, specifically. Blond, lean, the sharp-boned entitlement of someone who'd never been told no by someone who could make it stick. There was a feral brightness behind his eyes, like something hungry and bored. He poured tea with the grace of someone imagining your autopsy.

Geto glanced toward him. “Naoya. Thank you.”

The man gave a short bow that wasn’t quite a bow.

You smiled, tilted your head slightly—your expression deliberately soft, even as your voice curled with something sharper. "You're really beautiful. You shouldn’t be in corporate. Milan seems more appropriate."

Suguru chuckled, almost surprised. “Fashion is a battlefield. This is where I’m better suited.” He gestured to the tea cup in front of him. “I hope the flight was comfortable.”

“It was fine. Apologies if I kept you waiting—my husband insisted we play a little longer.”

He didn’t blink. But in the corner of the room, a man with stitches across his face twitched slightly. Like the mention of something domestic scratched at his teeth.

Naoya, who was now pouring your tea like it was poison, said nothing. Suguru didn’t offer introductions. He just let the platinum blond ghost linger at the room’s edge like a lion watching your blood pressure with a smirk.

Then he looked back to you and said, with no real warmth, “Ah. Is he still obsessed with Digimon?”

The shift was instantaneous.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe wrong. But beneath the table, your fingers twitched once—an involuntary microexpression.

Satoru had never said that online. Not to fans. Not to journalists. Not even in investor decks.

But you didn’t bite, not so easily. “So tell me, Mr. Geto, what are your plans?” You didn’t specify whether you meant plans for your company or for you; he’d clear that for you soon enough.

He began flipping through a file. “As I’m aware, you’ve had… an eventful quarter.”

You kept your smile. “Define eventful.”

“The employee assault. The digital blackouts. The marriage leak. The #TwoHolesForAReason campaign. Your stock drops. The public threats. And of course…” His eyes dropped, just briefly, to your stomach. “The pregnancy reveal.”

You took a measured sip of tea. Let the silence breathe. You could feel a fish curling beneath the floorboards—koi or curse, you couldn’t tell.

“I didn’t come here to relive the timeline.”

“Of course not,” he said gently. “You came here because I asked politely.”

That stopped you. Just a breath.

Suguru chuckled, as if he'd made a harmless joke. “Satoru always did get possessive when he felt threatened.”

You blinked once, slowly. He was no longer implying leverage. He was showing it.

“How do you know my husband?”

“From a different life. We were in Jujutsu Tech together, some ten years ago or more.” He didn’t elaborate. “He’s... very consistent. Even back then.”

“Were you close?”

“We were best friends. Classmates. Same special grades. Different curse techniques, same suicidal ambition.” His voice didn’t change. “Then the world changed after your guardian killed a girl we were protecting, and I… left.”

You didn’t react.

You recognized the tempo. The bait. He knew more about you than he was supposed to.

“Are you still in touch?”

“The last time I spoke to him was eight months ago.”

He said it like a wound. Or a warning.

Blood crawled up your throat, but you smiled and sipped your tea like a lamb, luring him into a false sense of comfort. “What happened eight months ago?” you asked softly, like you couldn’t put two and two together.

He smiled—not kindly. “I lost.”

The silence that followed was polite. Hollow.

You inhaled. “You joined the corporate sector after that?”

“Mm. Sorcery has its limits. I realized my skills were better suited to cleaning up PR messes.” His eyes flicked over your bump, your body, the controlled inhale of someone used to performing normalcy under duress. “Your company’s been through enough chaos lately. The world turned fast.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. “That’s the risk of marrying violently private men.”

“Or of marrying two of them,” he said, too evenly.

You didn’t reply. Let him talk.

He didn’t. Clever bastard.

Instead, the blonde set down another cup of tea with a thud that felt deliberate. You glanced at him, properly now.

“You didn’t introduce your company.”

Suguru didn’t look at him. “Naoya Zen’in. Logistics director. Don’t take his silence personally—he doesn’t like powerful women.”

“Must be exhausting,” you said, sipping your tea without breaking eye contact with Naoya’s sneer.

Naoya’s lip curled, but Suguru raised a finger, and the man stilled like a dog leashed by old violence.

You glanced around the room again—and noticed the other man was too still. Too silent. Sitting near the incense tray now, legs folded like a child mimicking meditation. Young. Heterochromatic eyes. Face like a cherub carved by a sadist—unblemished except for the stitches, soft, but off.

You didn’t recognize him.

But something primal in you curled. Not fear—yet—but revulsion. He watched you with a kind of gleeful interest people usually reserved for vivisection videos.

Suguru didn’t introduce him either.

The air felt heavier suddenly. Your skin began to itch under your dress, and you couldn’t tell if it was hormones or the way that stranger tilted his head slightly every time you moved.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask. Let the wrongness root itself in your memory.

“So what’s your plan, Mr. Geto?” you asked calmly, eyes never straying. “You want to scrub my company’s image. Why now?”

He met your gaze with something that almost felt like recognition. “Because Satoru did what he did for you. And the world saw it as a threat.”

You stayed silent.

He was skirting around Kento’s name—which meant Nanami, in Suguru’s eyes, was just as guilty.

And neither of you were forgiven.

He continued. “Beating your own employees in the middle of a crisis? Then disappearing. Leaving your CHRO and Higuruma to spin internal terrorism as a ‘security concern’ while the internet tore you apart. And the marriage leak…”

His voice lowered. “The rape threats. The arson calls. The memes.”

You exhaled, slow. Steady.

He didn’t know Higuruma either.

His mouth twitched. Almost sympathetically. Almost.

“Your men love you,” he said like an obituary. “But the world is still too cruel to forgive a woman for being adored.”

You tilted your head and met his violent violet gaze. “And you do?”

Suguru leaned back, folding his arms. “I understand optics. I understand what it means to be seen as unnatural.”

He hadn’t once referred to Satoru by his full name. Hadn’t asked how he was. Hadn’t asked to set up a meeting to catch up. Hadn’t insulted him either.

Every mention dripped with intimacy. Personal. Familiar. Irreversible.

You glanced at the tea again.

You were being dissected.

Not you exactly. The idea of you. The blueprint. The soft horror of a woman who had everything and bled alone.

You smiled. Not sweetly.

“So you stayed hidden all this time. Why?”

His eyes glinted. “Because sometimes, anonymity is power. I don’t need to be seen. I need to move.”

You hummed, sipping.

You weren’t stupid enough for men like him. Suguru wasn’t obsessed with investing in your company. He was trying to replace you in your own life.

Naoya stepped forward again. This time, it wasn’t tea. He whispered something into Suguru’s ear. A coded phrase, maybe. Or a trigger.

Suguru nodded once.

And then the man with the uncanny smile by the incense tray finally spoke.

“Has it kicked yet?”

The room shrank by degrees. You froze mid-breath, head swivelling toward him slowly. “What?”

He beamed. It didn’t reach his eyes. “The baby. Or babies, I suppose.”

Your stomach twisted—not from pregnancy. Instinct. Deep and ancestral. Like recognising a predator that shouldn’t exist anymore.

Suguru didn’t stop him. Naoya grinned.

Your fingers brushed the inside of your coat pocket, finding the cold edge of your phone. You didn’t need to see the screen—just feel the lock button. One long press, and the emergency contact would trigger. Satoru had set it up himself, laughing like it was a joke. “Just in case you’re ever too tired to scream.”

You weren’t screaming now. But you were tired. And surrounded.

Your thumb hovered over the side of the phone, ready to press and hold.

He’ll feel it. He’ll come. He always does.

But you needed answers.

Across from you, the scared man’s gaze skittered over your body, hesitating on the weight of your pregnancy like it offended him. Like he was doing the math on your vulnerability.

Your fingers twitched again—hovering but not pressing.

"Funny," you murmured, voice honed to a razor's edge—quiet enough to slit the throats of every man in that room who dreamed of hurting you. Of hurting them.

"You didn't introduce him, either."

Suguru’s gaze dragged over you—slow, careful, like he was calibrating the threat level of a black widow spider beneath his shoe. “Ah. That’s Mahito. He’s not an employee. Just… an enthusiast.”

“Enthusiast of what?”

“People.”

Mahito’s laugh was a rusted scissor drawn softly across silk. “Of change.”

Your fingers tightened around your teacup, the heat biting into your palm. “I don’t discuss my children with men I don’t know, Mr. Geto. Remove him, or this meeting ends now.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, at Suguru’s faint nod, Mahito walked out—but not before his eyes dipped to your swollen abdomen, lingering like a promise.

Suguru tilted his head. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And you’re exactly what I prepared for.” You didn’t take the bait, just sipped your tea and wished you could gouge out Naoya’s wandering eyes on your body with the teaspoon.

“Your men could’ve fixed this,” Suguru mused. “Instead, they buried you alive under their failures.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me dig you out.”

You let out one sharp smirk. “You want my loyalty.” Naoya’s gaze continued to crawl over your skin, but it was Suguru’s quiet hunger that made your pulse stutter.

He didn’t just want your empire. He wanted what you had with him.

“No,” Suguru said, and for one suspended breath, you saw something ancient behind his eyes. “I want the myth they buried you in. I want to rewrite it in your bones. You can keep your loyalty. I know how fragile that is.”

Naoya smirked.

You traced the rim of your cup again, as if you weren’t about to be eight months along and evaluating three likely special grade threats in a building without exits.

“I remember he used to hoard candy in his coat pocket,” Suguru said idly. “Said it was for focus. But he always saved the strawberry ones. Said they tasted like the spring of youth.”

Your breath caught—only for a second.

He smiled.

You didn’t give him more.

“Why now?” you asked. “You’ve had years to insert yourself. Why wait until after they ruined everything?”

His smile thinned. “Because now the narrative is fragile. Vulnerable. Editable.”

You didn’t smile back. You narrowed your eyes, the way a knife narrows a throat.

“Editable?” you repeated, voice flat as the heartbeat monitor they once used when your blood pressure dipped from stress-induced anemia. Third trimester. High stakes. Too much noise. Too many men trying to rewrite your obituary before the children even arrived.

He leaned forward with the casual precision of a man who’d once taught his enemies philosophy before killing them. Elbows on the table. Like a professor who enjoyed watching you fail upward and spiral into myth.

“Everyone loves a redemption arc,” Suguru said softly. “Especially when the protagonist is already bleeding.”

You watched the way his fingers interlocked, how his eyes held yours without fear, pity, or desire. Familiarity, yes. But it was impersonal. Surgical. “You’re smart. You built a world-changing company, held it through five hostile acquisition attempts, and somehow survived being married to two emotionally repressed men with god complexes.”

A pause. Letting it land.

“But your narrative is a mess. Right now, you’re not a visionary. You’re a punchline. A cautionary tale.”

You didn’t blink. You’d stopped blinking for fragile men a long time ago.

“So you want to help me out of the goodness of your heart, Mr. Geto,” you sarcastically mocked, voice like cooled steel.

“I want to curate,” he corrected. “The public needs a villain. I’d rather it not be you.”

Your breath didn’t change. Your spine did.

“And who should it be instead?” you asked quietly.

His gaze didn’t falter. “The men who made you disappear.”

You didn’t answer.

Because your brain was already screaming. Eight months. That was the moment the light began to fracture. The lies weren’t clumsy—they were rehearsed. Gojo crying in the shower without making a sound, standing too close to the shower faucet like he wanted to burn off his skin. Nanami avoiding eye contact with you like you were Medusa.

They hadn’t just betrayed you.

They’d buried someone.

And this man across from you—

—this Suguru—

He wasn’t the villain of the story. He was the page they tore out.

You shifted slightly in your seat, careful not to press too hard against the left hip joint. It ached from carrying too much weight—twins, fear, expectations.

“I don’t trust men who speak softly for a living,” you said, finally.

He smiled, not kindly. “Then you’ll appreciate that I don’t live. I manage. I observe. I insert pressure.”

“That sounds dangerously like extortion.”

“That sounds like truth.”

You stood, feeling the subtle catch in your hip again. A strain, not a collapse. You could handle it. You’d handled worse.

“Then here’s some truth for you, Mr. Geto,” you said, staring him down while Naoya twitched beside him like a dog smelling meat. “I don’t care what happened between you and him. I don’t care if Satoru fed you strawberry candy with his mouth. I don’t care if you’re here to drag me into whatever unresolved soap opera you three left fermenting in a casket.”

Naoya flinched like a puppet yanked by ancestral strings.

Suguru just kept smiling, unflinching.

“But if you want a stake in my company, you’ll need to do more than spill secrets and wear pretty silk. I’ve already survived two of the most powerful men in Japan loving me to the brink of destruction. Fear’s a luxury I ran out of two assassination attempts ago.”

Suguru rose slowly. Elegantly. Offered a hand as if any of this was normal.

You didn’t take it.

You left.

And you didn’t realise your hands were shaking until the door sealed behind you. The tremor was slight, concentrated in the fingertips—just enough to betray you to yourself. Just enough to remind you that no amount of tech, intelligence, or control could reverse the trauma of being known by dangerous men.

You didn’t take Suguru’s jet.

Instead, you boarded your own—slid into the leather seat with Takahashi curled against your belly like a breathing talisman—and told your assistant not to speak unless the plane was on fire.

By the time you hit cruising altitude, your nails had already scrolled through Nanami’s phone.

Not because it was hard.

His password was still the same.

Gojo never had one.

You found messages you were never meant to see.

Shoko: 15 days until abortion is off the table.

Gojo: She won’t agree.

You: Then we don’t ask.

You stared at the screen for a long time.

So they all lied.

Not just Gojo. Not just Nanami. All of them. Shoko even pretended to be in your corner.

There it was.

It wasn’t just about control. It wasn’t even about love.

It was the assumption that because you didn’t throw cursed techniques like tantrums, you couldn’t possibly comprehend risk. That your life—your mind—was collateral. Disposable in the face of their warped logic and misplaced savior complexes.

Like talking to you was useless. Like reasoning with you was redundant.

Like you were some beautiful, ignorant thing to be protected and deceived in equal measure.

Like you were some animal incapable of critical reasoning when your own life was in danger.

So they could fuck each other guilt-free.

So they could play noble martyrs in the privacy of the wounds they gave you.

And still, that wasn’t enough. Because anger—real anger—needs witnesses.

You opened a signal sniffer, rerouted through two proxies, and tapped into your neighbour’s WiFi. Not because you couldn’t afford better surveillance, but because her router overlapped with the garden of Megumi’s penthouse.

You shouldn’t have looked.

You: She wouldn’t have agreed.

Haibara: Then don’t give her the choice.

You: She’s not a sorcerer. She doesn’t understand what these kids could be. My mom almost died trying to give birth to me, and I wasn’t even half as cursed.

Haibara: Yeah, she’s blind to what they’ll do to her.

You: I’m not going to let her die over a fucking ideal.

Haibara: That wack doctor says she’s fine, so stop obsessively worrying.

Your vision blurred—but not from tears. From calculation.

The rage came quietly. It didn’t scream or collapse. It focused.

You unclasped the ring from your finger. Gojo’s design, Nanami’s metal of choice. A perfect storm of sentiment you no longer had room for.

You handed it to one of the PR assistants travelling with you—someone young, hopeful, still romantic about the world.

"Get rid of it," you said. "Melt it. Turn it into something you like. Give it to your girlfriend. Or your mother. Or leave it on the street. I don’t care. Just make sure I never see it again."

She didn’t ask questions.

And you didn’t explain.

Because you knew your husbands were capable of cruelty. You’d lived long enough in the shadow of it. But what you hadn’t expected—

What truly broke something you couldn’t name—

Was Megumi.

Megumi, whom you’d grown up with. Who unknowingly saved you. Who you’d trusted with more than your safety. Who you’d let in on the soft, unfinished parts of your life.

He hadn’t just betrayed you.

He’d calculated your erasure like a business decision.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything Gojo or Nanami had ever done.

---

That was yesterday morning.

Now it was twilight in Tokyo.

They probably thought you’d thrown yourself into the sea.

But instead, here you were, crying into a bucket of fried chicken.

And you were borderline dehydrated, emotionally overloaded, stuck in a fucking KFC parking lot on the outskirts of the city, trying not to break down into raw animal sobs as you cried into your Zinger.

Your hypercar—a pearlescent black Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut—was parked sideways across two spots, hazard lights blinking like a distress beacon. The carbon-fiber passenger door still hung open. Your mascara was not waterproof.

The sandwich was getting soggy in your hand, fries had gone cold, and the second tub of soft serve was pooling slowly into your leather seat. Your coat smelled like fried oil, and you didn’t care. Not after the two days you’d had.

You missed Takahashi. You hadn’t meant to leave the house without him. But you had to run. And your mother's flight had been delayed without warning, your pelvic pain had spiked again, and your body had decided—in the grand tradition of pregnancy craving betrayal—that you absolutely needed karaage from KFC right now or you’d lose your mind.

You shoved another fry in your mouth. Your sunglasses slipped to the tip of your nose, and you wiped your nose on your sleeve. Your phone buzzed again in your coat pocket—ignored. The car’s touchscreen blinked up missed calls: Nanami. Gojo. Fushiguro. Haibara. CHRO. Keji. Shoko. Even Higuruma and Kashimo.

But your fingers only twitched when you reached into the Karaage Kun box and found it empty.

You blinked at it. Then stared at it again like it might refill itself if you focused hard enough.

It didn’t.

You muttered something vile under your breath, threw it into the bag, and reversed sharply out of the space, startling a group of high school boys who had been trying to take selfies with your car.

You pulled up to the drive-thru window again.

The teenage employee there—a scrawny, gentle-eyed boy with two acne patches on his chin—took one look at your blotchy face, your designer maternity wear, and the angry tears still clinging to your lashes like guilt, and leaned in awkwardly.

“Would you, uh… like to eat inside? In the back? It’s private. No one will see.”

Your eyes narrowed. Not because he was wrong. But because it was too damn late.

Fushiguro probably already had Tokyo’s entire surveillance grid running facial recognition on CCTV footage. You had thirty minutes, max, before someone pinged your license plate and alerted the staff that you were a missing trillionaire heiress with a God Complex Husbands Alert Level 5.

You opened your mouth to politely decline—and that’s when it happened.

A sharp, gravel-thick voice from behind your Jesko snarled loud enough to startle pigeons off the KFC’s roof.

“What’s taking so fucking long?”

You froze.

This. This was your final straw.

Not the delayed flight. Not the ghost of Geto Suguru. Not the stress migraine. Not even the go-bag full of burner phones in your trunk.

No. It was this man, some impatient Tokyo businessman with too much money and too little self-awareness, honking at a crying pregnant woman ordering a ¥700 chicken snack set.

The teenage cashier turned pale and scrambled to shush him, mumbling something apologetic and helpless in corporate lingo.

But you were already getting out of the car.

Your heels—flat, orthopaedic, pregnancy-safe—hit the pavement with a purposeful thunk. Your bump was covered in a loose belted trench, collar flipped up, eyes bloodshot, mouth red from crying, ketchup and eating your own lipstick with the fried chicken.

You strode across the parking lot like your water might break from rage alone.

The man was in a Porsche 918 Spyder.

Rich, then. But not you – rich.

You knocked on his tinted window hard enough to make the glass vibrate.

The man inside—long dark hair, too many rings, cigarette hanging from his lip like an accessory—rolled it down and looked at you.

Your heart stalled. Had Geto found you?

Then he turned fully—and no, you didn’t know him.

“Hey,” he started. “I’m sorry for—”

He trailed off. His eyes didn’t leave your face. But his hand went back, casually, like muscle memory. He grabbed something—or someone—in the back seat and yanked.

A pink-haired burly man, Fushiguro’s age, popped into view. Eyes wide. Face pale.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, staring at you.

You didn’t care. You were done being polite.

“Do none of you have the decency to wait your fucking turn? You’re not the only ones starving!”

The pink-haired one gawked. The long-haired one blinked, snuffed his cigarette.

And then—

The rear door of the Porsche opened with a heavy, expensive click.

A man stepped out.

No—a wall of a man. Towering. Black spiky hair. Tattoos across his neck, his hands, the visible sliver of skin beneath his bespoke coat. His suit looked Brunello Cucinelli. His gait was slow. Controlled.

Somehow, he was taller than Gojo.

Which should’ve been illegal.

You took a step back. Your hip twinged.

He looked at you the way sorcerers looked at curses: like you were made of secrets and danger.

His voice was almost gentle when he spoke in English to you.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry for yelling. I was just… stunned. We were supposed to meet yesterday in New York, but you never came. Do you remember me, princess?”

You stared at him.

Confused.

Nauseated.

Because you did not remember him. Not the face. Not the voice. And especially not the “princess.”

Your hand—coated in fries and fatigue—slowly curled into a fist at your side, “Don’t call me that. Who the fuck are you?”

---

He’d seen a lot in his many lives.

Flesh peeled from bone in war. Gods weep beneath shrines. Kingdoms rise on the shoulders of men who lied.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this: A woman powerful enough to end markets with a swipe of her hand, pregnant and a little crazy, yelling at a man twice her size at a Tokyo KFC lot like he’d committed a crime.

And to him? He had.

Because she didn’t remember him.

Not the face.

Not the voice.

Not the name he’d written for her the first time they’d met in Norway—softly, like it would break something if said out loud.

She stared at him now like he was a stranger. And it knocked the breath from his lungs harder than any curse ever had.

The same eyes. The same sharpness in her jaw when she was pissed, the same raw edge to her voice.

He opened his mouth. Could’ve told her. Could’ve said everything.

But the car behind him honked. Loud. Disrespectful.

And she turned.

Didn’t even wait.

Walked back to her car like he was just another suit in the noise.

Slammed the door. Didn’t look back.

He stood in the fading orange-pink glow of Tokyo twilight, heart slightly colder.

“Broooo,” came Yuji’s voice from the passenger seat. “You got rejected by a pregnant woman, in public. That’s generational humiliation, man.”

“She didn’t reject me,” He muttered, eyes still on her.

“She forgot you existed,” Junpei added helpfully from the back, licking spicy powder off his fingertips. “You’re a ghost. A failed Tinder date. A plotline that didn’t make the final cut.”

“Don’t you think she’s kinda scary, though?” Choso chimed in quietly, looking almost reverent. “She gives off strong mom-you-don’t-wanna-piss-off energy.”

“She is a mom,” Yuji pointed out.

“To twins,” He corrected, voice too soft.

They all looked at him.

“What?” He snapped.

“Nothing,” Choso said, already climbing out of the car, like that was answer enough as he walked to the car that had honked.

So of course, he didn’t think. Just walked.

Over to her Jesko, one hand raised, careful to keep his body language non-threatening. He knocked. Once. Lightly.

She looked up. Eyes bloodshot. Hands gripping the tub of chicken like a war trophy.

He held up the takeaway bag like a peace offering. Didn’t say anything.

She didn’t roll the window down. Just glared at him like she might reverse into him and not lose sleep.

Behind him, Yuji, Choso, and Junpei leaned out of the Porsche like hyenas watching a National Geographic special. “Go on then, Romeo,” Yuji stage-whispered.

The giant man ignored him. Nudged the bag closer. Still no window roll.

She shifted slightly—hand brushing toward the ignition.

But then… her stomach growled. Loud.

An indecent, almost comic little groan from deep within.

She froze. Looked horrified.

He bit back a smirk.

She sighed, finally rolling the window down with the resignation of a god forced to make peace with a lesser deity.

“Who the fuck are you?” Her voice was sandpaper and citrus. He almost missed it. The familiarity.

“Calm down, woman. I don’t hurt defenceless pregnant women.”

“Who. The fuck. Are you?” She snapped again, unbothered by his size, his tone, or the heat radiating off him like a threat.

He admired that. Always had.

“Ryomen Sukuna,” he said, slow, voice low. “From Itadori Industries, we specialise in market manipulation. I was trying to invest in your company. We met in Norway.”

She blinked. Sniffling. Mistrust etched deep in the slope of her shoulders.

“Show me your passport.”

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he turned and yelled, “Choso. You got the passports?”

Choso, saint that he was, was already halfway out of the car, rummaged around in his coat and brought it over.

As he handed it over, he leaned close and whispered, like it was sacred, “He wore this suit just because he was excited to meet you.”

Sukuna shot him a glare that could've flattened cities. Choso walked back, unbothered.

He flipped to the front page of the passport with one hand, takeaway bag still in the other.

Held it out.

She scanned it on her phone with the tired efficiency of someone who’d been betrayed before.

It pinged. Verified. Real.

She gave it back.

“I came to the meeting,” she murmured. “Some guy named Suguru showed up instead of you.”

Sukuna’s face darkened.

Who the fuck was Suguru?

Before he could say more, she sniffled.

“Princess,” he started, softer now. “Do you want to have this conversation while I stand outside your car with a takeaway bag like a solicitor?”

She wailed, openly now. “Nooo. Give me the food.”

And she got out of the car.

Didn’t stray from the door, but her body relaxed the slightest bit. Maybe from the scent. Maybe from the warmth of fried food. Maybe from the fact that Sukuna didn’t flinch when she got close enough to punch him.

He leaned against her car’s hood, offering the bag.

She rummaged through it like a raccoon with opposable thumbs.

Found too much food—because of course, he’d ordered one of everything Japan-exclusive. KFC bento. Teriyaki Twister. Pepper Mayo Twister. Chicken Katsu Sando. Matcha Tiramisu. Peach Mango Pie. Sakura Milk Tea.

She blinked. Whispered, almost suspiciously, “Did you poison it?”

He raised a brow.

Sukuna had been trying to meet with her for months. Months. And yet here she was, passing him the milk tea like it was some kind of test, like he wasn’t exactly who he said he was.

His hand almost brushed hers as he took the cup, and for a moment, he wondered if she’d noticed the slight tremble in his fingers.

He doubted it. She was too busy with the storm that raged behind her eyes to care about something as trivial as that.

He took it. Sipped. “Sweet,” he said, licking the sugar off his lip like it might make her remember.

She didn’t respond, her eyes still sharp like she could see every secret he kept buried behind his smirk.

“You look like you’re going through something,” he said, stealing a fry with the air of someone who didn’t have the blood of entire lineages on his hands. (He did. But not today.)

Her gaze barely moved, and her voice came out in a low, bitter monotone. “I hate my husbands.”

He smirked wider, his amusement sharp as glass. “I’ve seen the news.”

Yuji snorted from their car, and Sukuna glared at him.

She narrowed her eyes. “You look like a criminal.”

“'Cause I am,” he said, but shrugged. “Nah, just a sorcerer. Was."

“Get away from me,” Her mouth twisted as she began to pull away, pushing herself back into the uncomfortable space of her own thoughts. “God, they say sorcerers are rare but I keep encountering them like flies. Like cursed venereal diseases. It’s disgusting.”

Sukuna jumped to his feet without thinking, like it was second nature to console her, even if the reason felt foreign—some instinct buried deep in his chest, one he couldn't quite shake. He didn't need to comfort her. Hell, he probably shouldn't have. But for a moment, he wasn’t the monster he had been in another life; he was just a man, holding out a hand when it was needed. “No,” he said softly, his voice almost gentle. “I used to be one, but I’m not anymore. Don’t care about it, either. My brothers over there, and Yuji’s friend? They’re sorcerers too, but none of us participate in that die-a-thankless-death game.”

Junpei made a gagging sound behind the car. Choso threw a napkin at him.

“That’s what he said too,” she mumbled, shoving a mango pie into her mouth with the viciousness of someone who wanted to eat and disappear.

“Who?”

“The guy who showed up instead of you and … And there was this stitched-up guy and that fucking Naoya, and I thought I was going to die, and my husband lied to me about Suguru and his beautiful hair; he never told me about him.” She continued wailing.

Sukuna was confused between her sniffling, eating and crying combo. “Wait, slow down; start with the smallest one. Who’s the stitched guy? What did he look like?”

“His name was Mahito; he had stitches on his face and pale blue hair and looked at me like he was gonna open my stomach and take my babies like a claw machine prize.” She continued sniffing and also somehow sipping her tea.

Sukuna’s fists clenched.

He turned to Choso and yelled out, “Find where Mahito is. Now.”

Choso already had his phone out, mouth a thin line.

Sukuna turned back to her, voice low. “What about the other one? Naoya?”

“He looked at me like he wanted to assault me. I wanted to blind him with a tea spoon.” She said it so flatly, like violence was just a normal Tuesday.

“Naobito’s kid?” Sukuna asked. She nodded, still chewing. He gave a nod to Yuji, who was already on a call, voice sharp.

And then:

“Who’s Suguru?”

She went quiet.

Then, with all the ceremony of a royal confession, she slid him her half-eaten burger.

He accepted it like it was holy.

Then ate in silence with her for a while.

She began again, “He told me his name was Geto Suguru. That he and my husband were soulmates. And that I was their enemy. How the fuck am I someone’s enemy when I didn’t even know he existed?”

“Wait—Geto?” Sukuna stopped mid-chew.

She nodded, slow. “Yeah. Long black hair. Pretty, in that ‘will definitely commit a felony against humanity’ kind of way.”

Sukuna felt something shift in him.

“He’s supposed to be dead. There was a war a few months ago in Kyoto. Your husband killed him.”

Her eyes widened, horror blooming.

“Did I see a ghost? A curse?”

“Not possible. He was a curse user, yeah, but no one survives your husband.” Then he smirked. “Unless it’s me. I’m very strong, princess.”

She rolled her eyes and buried herself in the chicken like it could shelter her from the fact that apparently nothing in her life was real. “Less peacocking. More finding who’s impersonating you.”

“I’ll find out,” Sukuna said. His voice was flat, but his chest thrummed like a curse trying to break its seal. “And I mean that.”

Of course he did. She just nodded absently, like it was a customer service promise she’d heard before. There was Sprite condensation running down her fingers. Her lips were slightly swollen from all the salt. She looked exhausted. And holy.

That part hadn’t changed. Not in a thousand lives.

But then she said, “I have two husbands. And they’re both absolute clowns.”

Sukuna didn’t laugh.

(Okay—he let out a very soft, involuntary snort. Behind him, Junpei was wheezing into his Armani jacket, Yuji muttering “bro’s down bad”, and Choso took a photo of the moment like he was documenting a rare animal sighting.)

She kept going. “I wake up every morning to a new scandal,” she said, gesturing vaguely with a limp fry. “They bicker like old women in a laundromat. One of them tried to cheat on the 3AM Test with a voice actor, and the other failed so hard the internet started a NanaMoobs hashtag.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, more amused than he’d let show. “And yet, you are still married to them.”

“Bad decision-making, obviously.” So she was still in love with them.

He hummed, reaching for one of her fries again. Her wrist didn’t flinch this time. Small victories. “What did they do this time?”

She sighed, the kind that aged you five years in one breath. “Oh, nothing major. Just tried to abort my babies without telling me.”

Sukuna’s drink went down the wrong way. He coughed, violently, his eyes watering as Junpei whispered, “Bro…” with the reverence of someone witnessing an execution.

“…Excuse me?” Sukuna rasped.

She took a slow sip of her Sprite, eyes dead. “Yeah. Something about ‘if it was her or the baby, we’d choose her’ blah blah blah.’ I don’t know. I stopped reading after.”

For once in centuries, Sukuna had no words.

And that, in his world, was a fucking problem.

Because he’d once bathed in the blood of tyrants. He’d reduced kingdoms to ashes and made death feel like a mercy. His name had been enough to unmake faith.

But he had never, not once, been asked to comfort a furious, hormonal, fast-food-devouring, betrayed woman who used to be his entire world and now didn’t even recognize him.

And who was still, somehow, unspeakably radiant through it all.

This—this was worse than war.

So he said the only thing that came close to honesty. “You love them, right?”

She glared. Not just at him—through him. “What does that have to do with it?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “So hypothetically, if they were pregnant and historically too stubborn to save themselves, would you let them die?”

She blinked. The words caught her off guard. Her fry stilled halfway to her mouth.

“That’s an oddly sentimental thing to say,” she said.

He smirked. A slow thing, calculated, but tired around the edges. “I’m a businessman. Can’t let my biggest asset disappear, can I?”

She rolled her eyes, but the edge had dulled. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Mr. ‘Not a Criminal.’”

But she wasn’t crying anymore.

And Sukuna decided that—pathetically, pathetically—that was his greatest win in years.

She turned to him again, half her chicken gone. “But like—hiding an ex that fucking relevant is still bad, right? Like ‘my one and only’ and shit.”

The words twisted something deep in his ribcage. Deeper than his heart. The one that still beat only for her, even after all this time, all his deaths.

Sukuna hummed. Not dismissive, just thoughtful. “I guess. But then I have an ex—though I never called her that—who nearly set my entire life on fire. Yandere, textbook. I don’t talk about her. Not because I’m hiding her, but because she… made living unbearable. Some people are like that. Maybe your husband didn’t tell you because it hurt too much, and the other one didn’t because it wasn’t his secret to tell.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

There was mango sauce on her lip. Chicken grease on her coat. Her hand trembled just slightly, probably from the sugar crash. And still—still—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

But she didn’t remember.

Not the wedding. Not the way she’d laughed into his neck. Not the way she’d once laughed when he brought her those blobfish plushies for the babies.

She didn’t smile that tired smile while saying his name now.

There was no hate in her voice. No love either.

Just air.

She kept eating. Sipping her Sprite. Talking about two men who didn’t know what they had until they almost threw it away. Two men she still loved.

Behind him, Yuji laughed under his breath, “he’s got it bad.”

Choso handed him a tissue for the Sprite spill that hadn’t happened. Junpei was still smirking.

And Sukuna—he just sat there, breathing through a heartbreak that didn’t even have a name in this timeline.

---

Small A/N: Before/After reading the next bit, to draw the parallel, read this - [Tumblr/Ao3]

---

On the other side of Tokyo, the Fushiguros had gathered.

“Mom.” Megumi offered a hand when she climbed out of the jet.

She didn’t take it, just kept walking with her guards.

“I didn’t know. Then that doctor said she was fine, so there was no need to tell her in case the stress got to her.” He snapped.

She turned to him, “Your father would be disappointed in you.”

Megumi didn’t speak after that.

---

Across town, Nanami and Gojo were in hell. Again.

Nanami looked like a man trying to mathematically quantify grief. A golden ratio blade flickered and died in his palm every few seconds,  uncontrolled—his body stuck in a loop, like it was trying to fight something that wasn’t there anymore.

Gojo’s Six Eyes still burned. Pupils dilated too sharp, skin gray-blue, the corners of his mouth twitching from the static in his brain.

Neither had slept in twenty-eight hours.

They had tried every scenario.

None of them ended with a pin drop at a KFC.

Incoming Message: Location

They stared at the screen.

Gojo broke the silence, cautious—hopeful like a man hoping the corpse in the morgue might still breathe.

“She’s—?”

“KFC,” Nanami said. Flat. Not deadpan—dead.

Gojo squinted. “You think the universe hates me personally?”

Nanami didn’t answer. Just turned the key and revved the car like he meant to drive it through Heaven’s gates and make someone answer for it.

---

By the time they arrived, the sun was bleeding into the horizon.

She was outside. Sitting on the hood of her car like the world hadn’t just ended two days ago. Barefoot. Anklets catching light. One hand held a melting Sprite float, the other a neatly folded napkin like she’d just wiped off a joke.

She was laughing.

Not alone.

Two—no, four others lingered around her. All vaguely wrong. One looked like Haibara on benzos, another like a Megumi with worse judgment and better hair. A third had cult survivor written all over him, and the last—

The last looked like he’d walked out of an ancient curse and decided to become a CEO.

Nanami’s breath stalled. Rage bloomed slow and clinical—an aneurysm waiting for a reason.

Gojo’s voice was already splintering. “Who the fuck—”

Nanami’s cursed energy cracked across his wrist like stained gold glass—subtle but loud if you knew him.

She saw them.

Across the street, with her mouth still full of fries, she called out, “Oh hey, look who finally decided to show up. I was gonna save you some, but figured you’d make me eat a granola bar and cry about my blood sugar.”

Gojo stopped in his tracks.

Nanami blinked.

She grinned like she hadn’t haunted them for past 29 hours. Like she wasn’t the reason Gojo started drinking his coffee black again.

“Come here,” she called, louder. “You two look like you haven’t peed in hours.”

Gojo, under his breath, muttered, “Because we haven’t.”

Beside her, reading their lips, Choso grimaced. “Jesus.”

Sukuna chuckled low in his chest, his attention never leaving her. “You really made them come to a KFC?”

She laughed harder, grabbing her side. “You don’t get to judge. You literally told me you’ve been burning cash just for a ‘chance meeting.’”

“Your business is lucrative,” Sukuna said.

“You’re covered in money.”

He glanced at his bespoke three-piece. “It’s decorative.”

“Okay, American Psycho.”

Sukuna smiled. His hand twitched once—almost like he was going to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but didn’t.

Same as Nanami, Gojo was already halfway across the street. “Who are these people?”

“They’re my friends,” she said sweetly, swinging her legs off the car. “Don’t be jealous, Satoru.”

“I am jealous,” he muttered, eyes glued to her.

Nanami’s voice cracked, sharp and brittle: “What did you tell them?”

She stood. Twirled her straw once. Shrugged. “That my idiot husbands forgot I was dangerous. Corrupted my friends. Lied to me. So I made new friends. Ones who don’t gaslight and lie to me.”

Nanami took a single step forward.

She pointed a fry like a weapon. “Don’t. If you breathe without apologizing, I will stab this into your brain through your nose.”

Gojo wheezed. Somewhere between a sob and a snort.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I was already craving wings. Otherwise, I’d be halfway to Bhutan.”

She stepped off the curb.

Licked sauce off her thumb. Like she hadn’t been running for her life a day ago. Like she’d never had a panic attack in a jet with the lights off. Like the world didn’t owe her blood for making her survive it.

Her gait was relaxed. Chin high.

And then—

CRACK!!!

No echo. No cinematic recoil.

Just nerve, bone, and fate snapping in sync.

It was intimate. Like an exhale through a silencer. Like a trapdoor closing.

Her hand jerked. The Styrofoam cup slipped from her grip mid-sip, spiraling sideways—Sprite and melting ice cream spraying in a soft arc. Her other hand, still holding the napkin, trembled like it knew something her mind hadn’t yet registered.

Then—

Red.

A bloom at the base of her skull. Not metaphorical. Not poetic. Surgical. The kind of red that silences conversations mid-sentence. That never washes out.

Her shoulder twisted, tendons snapping like overstretched cables. A clean fracture. Deliberate.

And then she dropped.

Mid-step. No scream. No gasp. No hands thrown up in defense.

Just a body folding in on itself. Puppet. Cut strings. Floor.

Her knees hit first. Then her hips. Her skull would’ve cracked open if—

“NO—!”

Gojo’s voice split the air.

His body slammed the pavement just in time, arms sliding under her skull before it struck asphalt. His knees hit hard. He didn’t notice.

She was convulsing. Fingers twitching. Legs spasming like her nerves were glitching through static.

Her eyes fluttered open—barely. One blown wide. The other slow to respond. Her mouth moved, soundless, forming shapes she couldn’t say.

The back of her head was caved in. Blood bubbling at the base, wet and hot against Gojo’s thighs.

“Hey—hey. Look at me. Look at me—fuck, baby, just stay. Please stay—”

His voice was wreckage. No power, only panic. Shaky hands curled around her cheeks like he was afraid he’d break her worse.

She blinked. Just once. Then her pupils rolled up.

And still, he held her. Cradled her like a lifeline. A wrecked thing trying to hold together something softer than himself.

Her breath came out uneven. Like a machine trying to reboot.

Gojo didn’t feel the pain in his legs. Didn’t feel her blood soaking his clothes. All he saw was her face—lagging, like her brain was buffering behind real time.

For one breathless second—

Even Sukuna forgot who he was.

He blinked. Twice. His head tilted. Like something ancient had stirred from beneath his ribs.

Her face. Her blood.

The stillness.

He didn’t move. His hands twitched once at his sides. His throat clicked dry.

It was like watching a ghost die again.

“…No,” he breathed. “No—no, no—fuck.”

A memory surged:

He’d seen her bleed before. In another life.

Him, cradling her. Her gaze empty. The room sterile and humming with cold fluorescents. That awful antiseptic smell. The nurses whispering about miscarriage like it was a math error. All because the trauma to the womb was too violent.

A month later, Gojo. And Nanami. Suicides. News headlines.

She hadn’t remembered him in this life. Hadn’t even looked twice.

But Sukuna remembered everything.

The way her breath had sounded when she laughed in that life. The shape of the twins she lost before he could name them. The soft sigh she let out as she fell asleep in his arms. The nightmares—always the same men, the guilt too heavy to swallow. The way her eyes had looked when he told her she deserved to live, to be happy anyway—even after everything. The way they had looked when she told him she loved him. The way her lips had moved when she tiredly said his name for the first time.

That "Ryo" still ran through his bloodstream like a curse—he’d remember even if he forgot his own name.

The way she had asked him for help, like he wasn’t cursed.

He hadn’t begged for reincarnation.

He’d ripped it from the jaws of nonexistence—not to be a god, not to be reborn.

To see her again.

And now—

“No—” Sukuna’s voice came low. Not pleading. Not broken. Controlled.

Like a warrior watching the aftermath of an explosion he couldn’t stop. A man built to destroy, watching the one thing he didn’t want broken shatter anyway.

His hands curled into fists. Slowly. Silently.

Across from him, Gojo was still holding her. Still whispering like prayer was a reflex he’d never believed in until now.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me. Please, stay—don’t fucking do this to me—don’t—”

Choso turned pale, like the horror had wind behind it. “Who do we call?” he asked. “Hospital—police—do we—what the fuck do we do? We need a doctor—who’s treating her—”

No one answered.

Gojo didn’t even hear him. His voice kept going. Quiet. Shredded. “Stay. Stay. Please, stay. Just… just stay with me.”

Choso ripped Gojo’s phone out of his coat pocket, fingers slipping. His hand shook as he dialed.

Somewhere behind them, Yuji and Junpei were already moving—eyes dark, steps soundless, splitting off like wolves catching a scent. Trained. Tracking. Gone.

Nanami hadn’t moved.

Not yet. Not immediately.

Like his brain had glitched mid-frame. Like the universe had misfired—like the seconds between the gunshot and the collapse were just another nightmare in the endless reel of them.

He stood there.

Still.

Watching her bleed.

A man built on logic. Precision. Ratios and rules. Cause and effect.

But this?

This was mathematics without an equation. Balance without meaning.

Another cosmic joke played on a man foolish enough to believe he could keep something sacred in a world like this.

Then he saw it.

The red halo at the base of her skull. The unnatural kink in her spine. The shoulder pulled out of socket like a bird with a snapped wing. And the exit wound—clinical, too clean. Efficient.

Something in him shifted.

Not broke. Shifted.

Like a knife turning in its sheath.

He straightened.

He moved like something had been switched off.

Like the weight of a man whose grief wasn’t a feeling—it was a law.

Rage in Nanami was never hot. Never loud. It was the collapse of structure. The moment when the scaffolding gives and all that’s left is gravity.

He didn’t speak. He just walked.

His technique activated without gesture. No ritual. No threat.

The ground cracked beneath him. Golden ratios burned through the pavement like divine geometry. Reality bent into fragments, everything around him rearranged into lines of perfect consequence.

He was already measuring the moment—the bullet’s entry, the blast radius, the arc of collapse. Calculating, silently, the seconds she had left before brain death.

“What did you do?” Nanami asked. His voice didn��t raise. It was the sound of a hypothesis being disproven. A balance sheet that refused to align. A verdict already passed.

Behind him, golden blades began to hum violently—too precise to be called weapons. They weren’t made for war. They were made for correction.

Weak points blinked into the air like constellations on a surgical map.

He moved toward Sukuna.

And Sukuna didn’t retreat.

His hands twitched—not from fear, but restraint. Part of him wanted to summon every cursed tool he’d buried across the globe. His mind cycled through the names of every mercenary he had killed in secret to keep her safe. The spells he’d never used—not even when dying.

And the rage—the sheer, blistering fury—that he had let his guard down for one hour just so she could feel normal.

And this was what happened.

“You shouldn’t have looked at her.” Nanami’s voice landed like cold steel. “You shouldn’t have breathed the same air.”

Around Sukuna, the air sliced itself into pieces. Invisible blades hovering in calculus patterns—dozens of trajectories, all of them fatal. Reality split like a frog in a biology lab.

Sukuna didn’t flinch. Didn’t lift a finger.

“It wasn’t me.”

Gojo looked up, blood in his mouth, his eyes, his thoughts. Staining. Hers. “He’s lying—she was smiling,” he looked back at her. “She was smiling—”

“I didn’t,” Sukuna said again. Quieter. Still watching her. “I couldn’t. Why the fuck would I—?”

Nanami’s voice came like frost on a blade.

“I will burn down the laws of this world if it means ripping you apart.”

Sukuna straightened. Deliberate. Like a tree refusing to bow in a storm.

“You want to fight me now?”

Nanami didn’t answer.

His Domain cracked open behind him—reality cracking, rewinding, clockwork splitting open like a broken timepiece. Golden lines spun outward in spirals, mapping every single version of this moment.

Every version where she survived.

Every one that didn't.

This wasn’t rage.

It was annihilation.

Sukuna’s own Domain shuddered into existence—scarlet, grotesque, brute, heavy, like an axe swung through a cathedral.

The shadows warped around his frame. The air vibrated with it. The ground buckled.

“I didn’t fucking touch her.”

Even he—he—hesitated when he saw Nanami’s face.

Because there was no wrath there.

No vengeance.

Just the flat certainty of a man with nothing left to protect and nothing left to fear.

Sukuna’s rage curled inside him like a parasite chewing through meat. But he couldn’t exorcise it. Couldn’t spit it out.

Rage was all he had.

And rage felt like prayer.

“Do it, then,” he growled.

His voice cracked once—just enough to show the rot underneath.

“Fucking do it.”

Gojo didn’t move. He just held her.

His mouth against her temple. His hands cradling what they could not save.

“I didn’t say sorry,” he whispered. Not to anyone. Not to her.

Just to himself. Just to the air. Like he was giving the words permission to leave him now.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry…”

His fingers were red and shaking.

Her coat stuck to her ribs, soaked through.

Sukuna had trained himself not to feel. Feeling made you fail. Love made you late. Attachment got people killed.

But then she’d said his name.

In this life.

In that soft, exhausted voice. With eyes like she’d already forgiven him for whatever he hadn’t even done yet.

He wasn’t a god anymore. He knew it the moment she touched his wrist and didn’t recoil.

He was just a man.

A man who remembered what her laughter sounded like. What it felt like to be seen.

A man who was about to end a continent for her.

But she wasn’t blinking anymore.

And then—

A twitch.

Small. Shallow. The kind of movement most people would’ve missed.

But Sukuna wasn’t most people.

Her eyelids fluttered. Once.

Only he saw.

His jaw locked. A breath hitched in his chest—sharp and quiet.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t shout it aloud. Just—

“I didn’t do it,” he said again. The words were sharp now. Precise. Not a defence but a promise. “But I’ll help find who did.”

Behind him, Nanami’s golden blades froze mid-rotation. Suspended like judgement delayed.

The air stopped humming.

“Why?” he asked. Flat. Unbelieving.

Sukuna’s eyes never left her. “Because in another life, I watched a woman like that bleed out protecting idiots like you. And I don’t even know her.”

Nanami didn’t lower his hand. “I don’t care if you knew her in a fucking dream.”

Choso stepped between them—hand up, body rigid, his own technique thrumming in a futile attempt to shield his brother. But even he knew he was useless here. He was trying to hold back two tectonic plates with nothing but his spine.

Sukuna opened his palms. Empty. Still.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

“I don’t want to think,” Nanami replied like a man who didn’t want to hear his own thoughts anymore.

Gojo’s shoulders shook like a child’s.

Not from panic. From something worse—recognition. That this was real. That this might be the last time he held her with warmth still in her skin.

He whispered again.

Not to her. Not to them.

Just to the shape of her still in his arms.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry.”

His voice caught in his throat. A hiccup. A prayer’s corpse. Like he was whispering it to the version of her who’d already left.

Choso’s voice broke through in the background, rising in panic as he screamed into the phone. “She’s bleeding from the brainstem—there’s spinal trauma—we need an ambulance NOW—”

Gojo folded over her, head bowed, as if shielding her from the sound. “Baby, no,” he begged. “You’re strong. Stronger than both of us. So stay. Just a little longer. Just—stay. Please. Protect me. One last time…”

Something in his voice—not words, but the way he said them—stopped Nanami cold.

The blades vanished. His Domain closed.

And the silence returned—not peace. Not grief. Just that awful stillness that comes before a scream.

Gojo leaned lower.

His lips brushed her stomach.

“The twins…” he whispered, breath hitching.

His voice broke.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry.”

Sukuna moved again.

Slow. Controlled. Cautious, like approaching a dying god.

Red stained his collar. His shirt. His wrists. Her blood had dried at the corner of his mouth, but it still glinted in the light.

Yuji and Junpei were already gone—disappearing into alley shadows like bloodhounds with no leash. Their cursed energy sang behind them in violent harmony.

And the street was painted red.

Gojo rocked her body slightly. Whispering into her hair now. The words meant nothing. They were only shape and sound. “Don’t go,” he kept saying. “Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go—”

Except—

Her hand.

A twitch.

Not a movement. Not a miracle.

Just a final neuron firing.

---

📱Twitter/X

@CHRO, Gaming Studios | May 2, 2025

Today, the unimaginable happened.

Our CEO, founder, and my friend of seven years was the victim of a targeted shooting outside a private engagement. We are currently working with authorities. Out of respect for her family and those of us who love her, we ask for space and privacy.

She built a dream from nothing. She made this world more than it was.

Please keep her in your thoughts.

🗞️Official Press Statement

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Gaming Studios | May 2, 2025

Our studios are devastated to confirm that earlier today, our Chief Executive Officer and founder was involved in a violent incident outside a private location. The matter is currently under investigation, and we are fully cooperating with law enforcement.

A visionary behind one of the most influential gaming empires of the decade—a friend, a to-be mother, a wife, a daughter, a relentless force who refused to build anything less than a revolution.

We ask for patience, respect, and privacy for her loved ones and the gaming family during this profoundly difficult moment.

Further updates will be provided when appropriate.

---

After the hit

Haibara didn’t blink when the sniper’s echo died. He just exhaled softly, like he’d been holding in a cough. Then, with a gentleness that made Naoya shift uncomfortably, he patted Maki’s shoulder—twice. Like a priest giving last rites to someone still breathing.

He turned. Winked at Naoya like they were sharing a private joke.

“Let her go.”

Naoya scoffed but obeyed. His fingers slipped from Mai’s arm, slow with disdain.

Haibara’s voice lowered, flat and unimpressed. “It’s just a bullet. You’ve choked your own blood out for less, haven’t you?”

Maki didn’t flinch. Not when Mai stumbled into her arms. Not even when Mai clutched at her ribs and rasped her name. Maki’s gaze stayed fixed on Haibara. Unshaken. Surgical.

“You picked the wrong sister to threaten.”

Haibara smiled without teeth. “See, that’s the part I liked. Do you know why?”

No shout. No gloat. No warning. No waiting for an answer. “Because you shouldn’t have said that.”

He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

Click.

One shot. Centered. Clean. Right between Mai’s eyes.

The sound was small. Not dramatic. Not final. Just... clinical.

Mai’s spine locked—then folded. Her weight slumped into Maki’s arms like a structure losing tension.

Maki didn’t scream.

She laid Mai down like she was putting her to sleep. One hand on her shoulder, the other cushioning her fall. Quiet. Focused.

Haibara didn’t wait for grief. He turned, flicked a hand in the direction of the body.

“Naoya. Get her out of my sight. My shoes are limited edition.”

Naoya grunted and kicked Mai’s corpse to the side like loose garbage. The body thudded against gravel, limbs folding awkwardly.

Still, Maki didn’t move. Her hands were slick. Her face unreadable.

“Megumi will kill you for this.”

Haibara grinned. All enamel. “Good. I’m counting on it.”

He paced a tight, deliberate circle around her. The gun swung in lazy loops from his fingers like a child’s toy.

“I’m not doing this for sport,” he said. “Or politics. Or whatever messy little revenge fantasy you’ve spun in your head.”

He stopped beside her. Then shifted slightly—gun lowering, gaze sliding past her.

Toward the street below. Toward you.

“Two heartbeats,” he murmured. “Feather-light. One flutters more than the other. Girl, maybe. You hear it?”

He didn’t wait.

“Twins. Inside her. You don’t need Six Eyes to hear it. Just patience. Stillness. Obsession.”

He smiled then. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I want them.”

It wasn’t said with lust. Or cruelty.

It was said the way collectors say, I want that painting.

The way scientists say, I want that body for dissection.

The way sorcerers say, I want that power.

“They’ll make glorious cursed objects,” he added. “Personal. Tragic. Intimate.”

Maki didn’t speak.

She moved.

No warning. No scream. Just acceleration—like a spring snapping forward.

Pure Toji’s curse. Clean, unstoppable violence.

The gun didn’t rise fast enough.

Haibara stepped back off the rooftop ledge.

But not in fear.

In invitation.

Behind him, his Domain bloomed open—slick, immediate, and silent.

Like silk unfurling from a box.

A trapdoor for gods.

He fell into it like he'd done it before.

Like he wanted her to follow.

And she did. Her foot crossed the threshold—

crack.

Another shot.

Clean. Efficient.

The bullet hit her mid-air, just below the sternum—left side, precise angle.

Her breath hitched. Her spine jerked. Blood bloomed from her chest like a curse blooming into form.

She shook.

Mid-lunge. All momentum gone. Her body folded in on itself—like a puppet yanked by frayed threads.

She never reached him.

She never touched the Domain’s edge.

She crashed. Bone snapped. Limbs bent wrong.

No scream. No dignity. Just meat hitting stone.

Ten minutes later, Yuji and Junpei found her.

There was no poetry. No storm. No wind cue. Just heat and buzzing flies.

Just traffic that didn’t stop.

No mourning. No rage.

Just reality. Still moving.

And somewhere else—clean, calm, unbothered—Haibara sent a message:

"Hearts are still fresh. You’ll need gloves."

---

A/N: hehehehehehe laughs like Mahito in a Gucci showroom this chapter was a psychological workout & a KFC commercial in disguise (Yes, I did it to torture Gojo; idk why he's growing more on me lately.) This chapter took a LOT of rewrites & delulu-fuelled breakdowns, but shoutout to my Todo (my beta bestie), who simultaneously enabled my fictional insanity & made sure I took naps like a toddler on a juice crash (she also made me eat fruit). My brain feels disturbingly relaxed even though I finished this in 2 days like a woman possessed by a keyboard demon. Thank you, girl, for keeping me from rewriting the ending 17 times. Did anyone clock Mamaguro?? LMAOOO & not Megs catching strays for existing 😭😭😭. Idk why I've been torturing him; he didn't even do anything except exist & love her. And, btw—Nanami’s reaction isn’t emotion bc he’s not regular, tax-paying Nanami anymore; he’s a special grade war ghost with grief compression issues. Also: HOW MUCH DO WE HATE HAIBARA NOW??? Please scream in the comments. I crave your rage essays like cursed energy. Your thoughts genuinely help me improve & shape this story—it’s my first time writing something this long & plot-based instead of just vibes & hot people with serious issues. How’d we like Suguwu-chan (or… whatever he is 👀) & the reader’s convo?? Was she not peak powerful, bad-bitch energy?? And don’t EVEN get me started on Sukuna!!! This man reappeared after 84 years & somehow aced every column with the highest marks possible?? I’m not even a Suku-girly, but maybe I’m also fictionally insane & it’s showing (but no, I’m not talking about canon Sukuna—I have no interest in murder or maternity, pls. I’m just tired). Also, Sukuna’s hair being black in this ending was an aesthetic choice bc I’ve seen the manga panels, & he’ll be built different next season. You’re free to hallucinate him however you want, just like my beta is doing as we speak. Also when he said “Ryomen Sukuna”? I flatlined. And not even his own spiritual homeboys spared him 😭. Absolute roast session. Peak television. Not Gojo crying like Andrew Garfield in The Amazing Spider-Man when Gwen died. Lmaooo. Loser. Please send your essays, memes, analysis & betrayal theories in the comments!! I re-read & reply to every single one like Gojo rereading her texts at 3AM.

Next Chapter 25 - Losing Sun - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy @xx-tazzdevil-xx @unaaasz @thebumbqueen @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @whos-ruru @helo1281917

[lets-try-some-writing]

You got any more creative juices for the Twins AU O.O that was such a jummy au angst with the truth and pinpricks of healing at the end nom nom nom

I'm Listening, all of us are

Ah yes the twin au. Its been a while. Honestly I am low on ideas for this au. It was a concept that I took and ran with and failed to make notes for. However, I will write what I can.

Previous part here. (excuse the formatting I was still figuring tumblr out when I wrote the last piece for this au.)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

To wear the face of another was a... difficult thing. It wasn't merely a mask for Optimus. In order to take the identity of his brother, there were sacrifices that had to be made, ones beyond losing his connections and name. Most of the augments had long since been forgotten, but with his identity revealed to his team, it was not hard to find those augments now that the difference was clear.

"Orion, what is this?" Ratchet's digits hovered over sealed compartments on Optimus's frame. The medic worked worked the plating before Optimus could respond, and within a klik, his data cable ports were revealed.

"Sir, you..." Arcee stared in horror, as did the rest of the team. Optimus for his part merely shrugged. He was from the data caste. Optronix was not. His twin had been an enforcer, and no enforcer in Iacon had data cables of all things.

His were cut and cauterized, stopping them from every fully regenerating. It was painful in the extreme, and the instincts of the Archivist demanded he engage his data cables whenever he interacted with technology. He gave up the ability to ever perform his one soothing duties for the sake of appearances. It didn't hurt anymore, it merely prompted a vague feeling of loss.

Ratchet made attempts to assess the damage and repair the worst of it, but all he got in return were hisses of pain from Optimus. His cables were sensitive, even when cut and hidden away. To repair them would be to reopen millennia old wounds and fish around in what amounted to a sensory organ. Without proper tools, it would be needless agony. Ratchet gave up on repairs but did put caps over the cut data cables to limit additional pain that Optimus had been walking off since his rise to Prime.

Arcee worked with Ratchet quietly to make prosthetic data cables for Optimus to use. The prosthetics attached to the caps and simulated the feeling of connecting to a device via electric pulses. It didn't actually do anything, but it would ease the archival coding. Optimus was dubious, but later in the dead of night he could be found with a smile on his face as his prosthetic cables attached to the console. The simple act have him comfort, and for that, the team found the effort worth it.

His devastated data cables were not all the team discovered. As Ratchet ran examination after examination, a whole plethora of augments were swiftly located. Optimus did not stop them. There was no point in it. They knew now, and it was not as though his augments could be removed now.

His optics had been remodeled as one of the first changes to his frame. Optronix's optics had full optical glass coverage. Orion's were of the cycling variety. Optronix needed protection from shrapnel and explosions. Orion needed to be able to capture everything with photographic clarity. When he took on his brother's identity, his sensitive optics were covered with thick optical glass and changed in color to match Optronix's gold ones. He had not seen his own optics since he became Prime, and he had long grown used to the faint pain that came from having to squint just to see through the optical glass.

Ratchet offered, or rather begged to be able to remove the glass. Optimus allowed him. However the glass had to quickly be put back into place when Optimus all but screamed in agony at the sheer level of sensation. After so long seeing through lenses, he couldn't handle light or the level of detail his optics afforded him.

To try and slowly acclimate him back into his original frame, Optimus was ordered to take out the optical glass at least once a cycle for five minutes. The children did their best to make it more bearable for him by having him read books to them. The small text gave his optics something to focus on and helped him reintroduce archival programming back into his priority trees. Every day he would take time out of his usual working hours to read a book to the children. Usually this amounted to reading out their homework questions or helping them get through their assigned reading. However it was always enjoyed and more than once, Bumblebee sat in to listen and see what his Sire's optics actually looked like.

The collective agreement around base was that Optimus's real optics were far more attractive than his fake gold ones.

Optimus had always had a rather boxy build as an Archivist. The frame type allowed him to process all of the data that assaulted him. Optronix however had a slim build, rather unusual for an enforcer. But it fit him due to his position as an investigator. Optronix was designed to be seen by the public and both fast and flexible. Orion had not been forged with such intentions in mind. In order to achieve his brother's frame type, Optimus went through extensive fasting periods and slowly had his waist taken in over the course of vorns. The damage to his internals meant he could never consume great quantities of anything and instead was forced to fuel slowly in order to not overwhelm his crushed tanks.

When Ratchet discovered that fact, he nearly lost his mind in rage. He immediately began attempting to find the bindings that kept Optimus's frame from reverting. However when he did locate the bindings, it was a slow and painful procedure trying to remove them. The bindings had been welded into Optimus's spine and served as a sort of ribcage for his waist. Getting it off involved surgery and Optimus being a wet noodle for several weeks while he recovered.

He vented far better after it was taken out, and for the first time since his rise to Prime, he actually felt like he fit into his frame. Getting him to fuel properly became a new fight for the team, especially once Optimus began to grow unhappy with his frame as it reverted. After so long, the shift began to come rather quickly. He maintained his waist, but he bulked up considerably. More than once the team caught him trying to wrap makeshift binds around his middle just to alleviate his discomfort at losing what he had long since deemed "necessary augments". Bulkhead came in clutch when it came to easing Optimus's concerns. The Wrecker was quick to bring Optimus into sparring matches, showing him that being extra bulky didn't do a thing to his combat capabilities.

Optimus was still the Prime and just as deadly. A supermodel waist didn't define his skill level.

The team were more than pleased when Optimus began to go without his mask without seeming on edge. They smiled when his optics adjusted enough to the light that he didn't need the optical glass anymore. They were all but thrilled when he openly used his prosthetics and moved comfortably in his frame. He had never been visibly as happy as he was, even though they were still at war.

Then Smokescreen arrived, and all that hard work went down the drain. Optimus was dead set on keeping up his persona around those who didn't know.

Ratchet wanted to scream.

[the-last-patch]

[ COMP/CON SYSTEM MESSAGE: Continuing transcription of direct experiential data capture… ]

In the cramped confines of the ordnance bay, Hachiko’s subaltern crouched over Sokaris’s Kobold, peering down at him through the breach in its hatch. His eyes were open; Hachiko watched as they lazily tracked the subaltern’s movements. Too slowly.

Concussion, Hachiko thought, and adjusted the tasking of the medical nanites.

He tried to speak, but his voice withered. Guttural coughs wracked his chest. A deep metallic scraping sounded from inside the chassis, and Hachiko startled, beginning to reach for her pistol before she caught herself. Cautiously, she extended a camera cable from the subaltern, trying to locate the source of the noise, and found it.

Sokaris’s cybernetic tail was dragging itself along the mech’s interior. Several end sections of the tail had been destroyed, and the pink paint coating its exterior was scorched away in places, but it moved with purpose. With precise motions, it created a series of taps and scrapes in alternating long and short bursts.

Morse code.

Friend? The signal read, transcribed by his Omnihook.

“Yes! I’m a friend. It’s Hachi, buddy. You’re aboard my fighter. It’s not ideal, but this bay is the best I’ve got. I’m going to get you warmed up. You’re wounded, but you’ve received correctives, including a small maniple of medical nanites. They’re going to start working to control your pain and repair the damage. You should feel the pain receding now, but don’t try to move yet.”

Scanning the interior of Sokaris’s Kobold, Hachiko’s attention was caught by the series of interface plugs across his hardsuit’s back.

“Wait. That’s a full subjectivity sync, isn’t it? You’re rigged for total somatosensory replacement, then.”

Hachiko paused, weighing something in her mind.

“Okay, there’s a few things we can do. You can’t speak, but we could use the sync cybernetics to communicate.

One, I could try to get a simple two-way connection up and running so we can communicate electronically. You could use neural commands to compose messages. Text, mainly. It’s non-invasive and relatively easy to accomplish.

Or—if you’re comfortable with it—I could try to set up a full Legionspace bridge. In effect, you could enter virtual reality, occupying a simulation of your body while I work to stabilize your real one. I don’t know if you’ve ever attempted that before. It’s safe, but it can be disorienting. You’d at least be isolated from the pain, however.

What do you think? Text, Legion, or leave it alone?”

[Resuming Song]

[Now Playing - “Opossum Instrumental Ver.”]

<As the transmission picks up again, the rudimentary Morse code is noticeably absent. It stopped when Hachiko addressed him. Silence followed her statements towards him, but it was clear that “Opossum” seemed to relax a little upon hearing her name. His breathing, previously ragged and strained, stabilized slightly. They became deeper, and less frantic.>

<Although the friendly voice seemed to soothe him, the time came for a response and he failed to deliver. There was no rhythmic tapping, no strained words, no noise at all coming from “Opossum”, aside from his faint breaths. It seems he was confused —Or Disoriented Perhaps— failing to understand what was being asked.>

{L3} “Text? Legion? Or leave it alone?”

<Several seconds pass in this silence, each stretching to impossible lengths, as the injured mercenary lie there, down and out. Then, he once again begins the code. It’s much more refined this time, each “dit” and “dah” clearly recognizable. It is clear that this ability, to scrape together a solution with only scrap is what truly made the Patchwork Mercenaries what they are, or were.>

{“Opossum”} .- .-.. --- -. . ..--.. / -- . ..--.. / -. . --. .- - .. ...- . .-.-.-

{System} Alone? Me? Negative.

<The Merc stirs, audible winces and other expressions of pain leave his throat as he does. It would seem the very thought of being alone right now is enough to frighten him. He eventually stops shifting, gently falling back into the depths of his frame with a slight thud. Following that noise, he can be heard grasping something. It was a gentle noise, but just loud enough for the Omnihook to pick up. He then continues the tapping.>

{“Opossum”} ... .--. . .- -.- .-.-.- / ..-. .- -.-. . / - --- / ..-. .- -.-. . .-.-.- / .--. .-.. . .- ... . .-.-.-

{System} Speak. Face to Face. Please.

<Without giving Hachi a moment to speak, he begins a new message. The deliberate “dits” and ”dahs” becoming rushed and frantic, as if “Opossum” believed he would be left behind should he not dictate fast enough.

{“Opossum”} .. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -... . -.-. --- -- . / .-.. . --. .. --- -. .-.-.-

{System} I will become Legion.

[pastelmusings]

The first one-shot let's gooo, I also posted this on ao3 here!

-

It was the third time this week you had him on the table... Sitting stoically as usual, unblinking eyes staring at you, a light purple this time no less.

"Simon..." you finally started, setting your screwdriver down on the counter with a light cling, eyes drifting up to meet his. "Can you just power down while I do this, or something? It's kind of hard to focus."

He finally blinked at you, head tilting ever so slightly as his white hair fell across his face, as if processing whether that was a command, or a friendly suggestion. He had gone and popped one of his joints out of place, again, one of his more fragile spinal support ones no less. Such delicate work was a touch more difficult when you could practically feel his eyes trained on your every minor movement.

"Requesting clarification: is that an order or suggestion?"

You bit back a groan, fighting the urge to manually power him down yourself. It seemed like the only time he was actually willing to go offline now a days was when charging, and it was getting increasingly difficult to deal with...

"Not an order, but at least sit still..."

He was sitting perfectly still, not even activating his simulated breathing, not moving a fraction of a millimeter as you carefully twisted a new screw into place. What you had wanted to say was 'stop staring', but he certainly wouldn’t understand your reasoning behind asking, leading into a long-winded conversation about human preferences, which would be the third one of the day.

"You seem to have a slightly elevated heart rate. Question: is this stressful?" He asked, his voice box vibrating the metal supports under your fingertips ever so slightly as you tightened the last screw, praying that this one would hold better.

"No, not stressful... Just stop breaking your supports, I've only got a few left to use."

It wasn't really his fault. A model manufactured as long ago as him, especially with so much of his metal alloy out on display due to your lack of replacement parts, was bound to have a fair bit of rusting and structural integrity issues. You had never really been in the 'refurbishing androids' business, working predominantly as a scrapper, but with a model as rare is his it seemed stupid not to at least give it an attempt.

He hoisted himself off the table after you pulled away, testing out the flexibility by turning his ‘waist’, or where it would have been if he had a full torso, slightly, the exposed pieces of his metal spine twisting with him and clicking into place. It didn't look like he would snap in half any time soon, thankfully, but finding a replacement part for his torso was a pretty high priority item if you ever wanted to even think about getting rid of him.

"Your blood sugar is down by 25%. Should I make you something?" You noticed his eyes shift back to their basic white LED, usually a sign that he had used his visual scanner to once again go poking around at your chemical and hormone levels. Now that was truly a practice you couldn't regulate, order or no, as it was integrated into his base code... A decommission medical grade Android as an assistant had both its advantages and drawbacks, apparently.

"No, thank you. I was going to grab something out on my parts run later." You replied, glancing down to mentally count how many more supports you'd likely be going through within the next week, if these breakages kept up their pace at least. His expression didn't actually change, but it was quite obvious he had a bit of a problem with that.

"Eating later will push your circadian rhythm back, making it harder to fall asleep. Counter: I'm making you food now." He immediately walked to the kitchen before you could get a single word in, leaving you to follow him with your protests.

"Hey. Simon—" you huffed slightly, "I'm not even hungry right now." That was a bit of a lie, which he was well aware of due to his detection of the increased ghrelin hormone produced, but he knew you knew that.

"58% probability you'll want something with simple carbs due to low glucose levels, but also roughly a 72% probability you'll want something higher in iron and protein to combat fatigue..." He seemed to be contemplating, running the numbers in his head before deciding. "Request: soup or custom rice bowl?" You stared at him a moment while he stared back, fighting the ever-growing urge to just power him off and go about your day.

"...Soup, please."

He actually smiled, one of his rare ones, before nodding. "It'll be ready in approximately 52.4 minutes."

He had practically assigned himself all of the cooking and cleaning duties around your little apartment and workshop, since his body really couldn't take anything more laborious while it was still being repaired. You didn't have any initial protest, per se, but his increasing persistence about maintaining your general health was becoming kind of concerning in its obsession. You remind yourself that when he was still in commission, he would likely tend to dozens of different patients every day, said this probably put a bit of a strain on his base code, at least whatever part of it hadn't been corrupted by time and neglect.

You must have been crazy for even attempting to make him fully functional again, considering what his individual parts would sell for. That damn scanner alone, with the condition that it was in, would probably sell for both your combined weights in precious metals. They don't make them like they used to...

You were quickly pulled from your thoughts by a hand on your shoulder, causing you to immediately tense.

"The serotonin in your blood is low. And your heart rate... Did I startle you?" His voice calm and even, with the most imperceivable hint of likely manufactured concern.

You didn't get an answer in before his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, ever so gently holding you like you were a poor wounded animal. "Physical touch necessary, is this better?" His synthetic skin was almost warm... Almost as soft as yours, and certainly more pristine, every little mark precisely designed to make him look perfectly imperfect.

"This isn't necessary..." It was your gut reaction to deny him, even if it did technically feel better.

"It is." He spoke plainly, as if simply stating a matter of fact. You felt his 'breathing', his 'heartbeat', all completely simulated of course, hardly comparable to the functionality of the real thing, but it did make it feel more like hugging a human, rather than a highly advanced doll.

He stayed there for another minute, pulling away finally to recalculate how your hormone levels were fairing, seemingly satisfied with the result. "Dinner will be ready in 46.5 minutes. I'll bring it to you, go rest."

It was stated more like an order than a suggestion, though without any sort of authoritarian tone, or really any tone at all. You decided to comply anyway, not able to think of anything better to do, and he seemed rather pleased.

The smell of soup filled your small apartment, leaving you wondering if you'd actually be able to go pick up those stupid replacement parts tomorrow.

[requirecookie]

What Happens When You File Off Serial Numbers

Ok, had a couple of people ask about this, so figured I'd just make a big, self-indulgent post.

Hi. So. I'm Stormy, and in 2003 I wrote a Matrix fanfic. Then like 40 more. It started pre-Reloaded, and was intentionally already massively canon-divergent, so the content of the sequels didn't really matter to what was going on (though exiles are eventually introduced).

It came from the basic concept of: Rebels recruit humans, why wouldn't Agents?

So, started off with that. Had Smith recruit an OC, Stef, who is the main character of the series, so we have someone new to everything to experience this through.

The Agency is basically split into three - Field (Smith), Combat (Jones) and Tech (Brown).

(*I...fucked up at the beginning and switched Brown and Jones' names, but will refer to them by canon names for ease of understanding - this, however, comes back later.)

Stef goes into Field, and she's this really smart hacker who I wanted to sort of model off Spider-Man in the quippy one-liner sense (as befit her hacker name of "Spyder"). She hears both sides of things, but genuinely wants to protect the Matrix with the attitude of "just because it's code, doesn't mean it's not real", "if I'm nice to someone, that's real, if I'm mean, that's real, reality is a formality".

Oops. She fuckin' dies and gets upgraded to an agent.

Time goes on, I add a co-writer, we add more OCs, I start to really just love the stuff I created and it's already so wildly divergent, I go "lol, how about I just rewrite this as original content?".

Lots of worldbuilding happens. I do a bunch of full/almost complete first drafts playing with various degrees of cyberpunk and other genres - the original versions were the closest in that it was a simulated world, but as compared to the Matrix, a benevolent one.

Earth is dead, and the only thing known to be reamaining there are a bunch of server farms with various sims showing sections of human history (Stef's world would run from like 1850-2050, then reset).

But that still felt too close, and I did keep getting the urge to play with other genres, and since it wasn't necessary the "simulated world" part of things that I wanted to keep, I let myself start to go "ok, well, where else can something like the Agency work?".

But...fantasy.

So iterated, rebooted a few times, and as of 2025, this is where we're at.

The Agency has offices in most major cities around the world, and outposts in smaller locations (these satellites report to their closest major city, and its Director). Their job is to "protect the masquerade", ie, to stop humans from finding out the fae, Faerie and anything weird exists.

This is achieved with a combination of information supression, misinformation, "yeah, it's fucking real, but don't tell anyone", memory modification, and fae usually wanting to avoid bringing uncessary attention to themselves while they're on Earth, as that only brings danger.

The Agents are still program people - for brevity's sake, we'll just say that what became the Agency as we know it grew out of something set up by god/aliens that may as well be the Q from Star Trek. (This history has very little impact on the day-to-day of the stories, however).

They're made of a nanite solution called "blue", and in System territory, are pretty much immortal (with magic/magic weapons still being dangerous), in areas more saturated with magic ("blackout zones") or in Faerie, they're as vulnerable as humans to even normal guns.

Agents can "Require" - conjure pretty much anything they can think of or imagine (*some restrictions apply, you need special clearance for a lot of medical stuff or weapons outside of the norm), and "Shift" - teleport themselves anywhere within System territory.

Fanfic Tangent: Both came from the fic days - it always bugged me that it seemed like Agents couldn't get request whatever from the System on an as-needs basic. ("You're empty"/"So are you" - Why the fuck can't he just require another clip and headshot Neo right then and there. Respawning obviously gives an agent a full loadout - new gun, new sunnies, fresh suit - and spawning even one more bullet into the clip should only take a fraction of that time, so, mechically, I couldn't understand/didn't like that, so invented requiring).

Shifting. While I do get that it both increases the fear factor of looking at a Bluepill, and that it might make rebels more hesitant to shoot, knowing a civilian will be sacfriced, there's...just not always going to be a Bluepill available when and where you need one, so...just open up Google Maps in your head and reposition yourself?

Personality and personhood-wise...while there's variation, every Agent is capable of emotions, though some naturally develop less, whereas some get an excess.

There's also a...deadening of it, in that while you can experience the wonder and beauty of life or sadness and grief, it's expected that you won't let it interfere with your Duty, so they (tend to, are programmed to, don't always) get over things faster - sadness over a break-up lasts a day, not a week; you could lose a recruit, and still turn up for work the next day. Duty first, always, freedom where you've got time for it.

"Break-ups?" Yep. Most Agents have romances or families - also, the vast majority of them are queer (both in gender and sexuality) (Examples later).

The Agency fights The Solstice. The Redpills/Rebels have a valid point of view, The Solstice do not. They hate magic, they think it's dangerous, needs to be destroyed, and spend their days and nights trying to achieve that, generally by lying to their new recruits, and presenting themselves as something more akin to monster slayers/the BPRD. A lot of people join, because they want to be heroes, want to protect their families, and, at least until they've bought into the rhetoric, are only shown the horrific side of magic, and the least human-looking fae to just drive in that "this is different, this needs to die".

The Agency Org Chart - for a major city Agency, it generally looks like this:

1 Director

1 Field Agent + 1 Aide (Recruit)

1 Tech Agent + 1 Aide (Recruit)

1 Combat Agent + 1 Aide (Recruit)

1 Medical Agent + 1 Aide (Recruit)

1 Liaison Agent

Some miscellaneous staff agents

Well. Uh. Brisbane* has. Uh. Some of that when the first book starts.

Brisbane, as an Agency is...the kind of place that ends up towards the bottom of "Top 100" lists and gets a "Oh. Them." kind of reaction. They are not well-regarded, their scores and metrics are usually pretty bad, and more than once, there's been at least the idea of just tearing it down and starting from scratch.

(*Sue me, I wanted to set my book series where I was born, and where I was living until a few years ago :P).

They have:

1 Director (Comatose for decades at this point)

1 Field Agent/Acting Director

1 Combat Agent + Aide

1 Tech Agent

2 Medical Agents (Twins) (Menaces)

1 Liaison Agent (Asshole)

Some miscellaneous staff

So let's meet our babies.

Agent Ryan (Field Agent/Interim Director)

So, whatever charcterisation we had for Smith just...took a flying leap at some point, and this man became 100% Pure Dad. Not Daddy. Dad. Cut him open and you'll just find his code says "I want to look after people"/"I'd love someone to mentor"/"Please, I just want to read fairy tales to someone".

The beating heart of the series is the fact that Ryan looks at Stef in book #1, goes "this is the saddest fucking creature I have seen in my entire life, It's Free Daughter" speedruns Found Family, and loves someone who's never been loved before.

He's stressed out, he's overworked, he's given up any semblance of a personal life juggling the two roles without the assistance of an aide (when, at minimum, he's entitled to two). Just trying to hold things together enough so that his little, unimportant Agency stays just functional enough so that he and his fellow agents don't get recycled for parts.

Grey-Ace. Divorced. Much happier by himself than essentially having his father-figure/director encouraging him into relationships and basically..."comp allo"? (Yikes, Director, yikes).

(I have other art, but this piece of fanart remains one of my favourite depictions of him).

Agent Taylor (Combat Agent)

I mean, one look at Agent Jones and you go "well, that's the party tank", so that's what I made Taylor. He's the angriest goddamn redhead to have ever lived, and someone recruits make Chuck-Norris-style-jokes about.

A bit younger than Ryan...but also not really. About 20 years prior to the series starting, he got horrifically injured and died. As soon as Agents die, their code starts to degrade, dumping data and memories, so that it can't potentially be used against the Agency.

But his friends couldn't stand that he'd died, so immediately tried to start resurrecting him, but in the few minutes he was gone, that was enough for pretty much all of his memories to go, so when he woke up, he was basically starting with a blank slate. Thinks of his past self like the Doctor thinks of his past regenerations, the "that was me, but that's also another person that I am not".

But he'd rather punch people and snap necks and depersonalise to an unhealthy degree than get any amount of therapy.

I generally call him "kratosexual", if you're strong, he could be into you.

Agent Jones/Andrea Jones (Technical Agent)

So, this is where the name fuckery comes into play. For the entire fanfic run, we called Brown, "Jones", and well...it was the one name I couldn't stand to lose ("Jonesy" is so much fun to say), and the one name I decided it was okay to keep.

The youngest of the Agents (as he's a replacement for the previous Tech, who died) at just somewhere around 30, he's a lot of recruits' favourite agent, as they're the least intimidating, especially when she's smiling. While Taylor is terrifying, and Ryan is just...blank-faced and seemingly pretty emotionless, Jonesy is a Gamer who raids with his recruits, holds movie nights, will actually sit and talk to you about your problems, and has multiple recruits who actually contribute little or nothing, because he just wants them to have somewhere safe to live. (This is fine, Agency resources are basically infinite).

Tech is just also full to the brim with queer recruits, who revel in the fact that their boss is a bigender hottie who can basically swap between long-haired bishoenen and sexy librarian with a tap of a button in their HUD.

Agents Parker (Medical Agents)

The only main agents without a direct parallel, but a role I felt was necessary, if I was going to have human recruits - in the fanfic, Parker was a single agent, in the series, I wanted to explore what twin agents would be like.

The answer? Weird.

Twins cannot be created on demand, and only occur as a glitch during agent generation, and are usually amazing at whatever role they were created to do - the function as two halves of an indivudal, so in surgery, it's one person with four hands. They're always in each other's thoughts, and if deprived of this connection (ie, through a blackout or magical interference), they are basically debiliated, and cannot function.

The Parkers (Parker-2, left; Parker-1, right) do show different parts of their personality, with Two being openly brash, hostile, and likely to threaten medical experimentation if you piss him off; whereas One is known for the better bedside manner, and being the "better half" of the couple.

(They make Jamie and Cersei look like amateurs, they're on a level of twincest unimaginable by mortal beings, and that's as NSFW as I want to get).

Stef Mimosa (Recruit/Secondary Field Agent)

So what happens to an OC that you let percolate over multiple variants and twenty years? You get the wibbliest little of anxiety ever put to page.

Anxiety. Depression. Self-harm thoughts. Crippling lack of self-worth. DID. (And that last one's not played for jokes, she's a median system, and it's probably the only reason that she's even as barely functional as she is when she starts the series, because it's the voice in her head that will say "You haven't showered in a week" or "You haven't slept in two days".

Before the series starts, she basically spends all day sitting around writing bits of code, or just staring at the internet and until it's time to sleep again.

And then she meets Ryan (for the second time, there was an incident when she was a child, but you should read the book to find out about that), and...with the first bit of love and encouragement she's ever had in her life, she starts to slowly change and grow a bit.

Curt O'Connor (Field Recruit/Aide)

In the fanfic, about halfway through, a recruit reveals themselves to a rebel plant (a Bluepill working within the Matrix, because you would need some people like that, some people would need to be there full-time).

Hi Curt, Bye Curt. You were just there so I could make a reference to The Lizard, as a companion to Stef's Spider-Man.

Then I started all those drafts that I alluded to all the way at the top of this post. Curt's role got a bit bigger, but every time, maybe a third of the way through the book, he dies, usually being Stef's first kill.

And I just started to feel sorry for him. Like, I'd probably murdered him like twenty times by this point.

So the next time through, I went "Nope, you live this time", but kept the rebel/Solstice thing, and made him someone who had defected to the Agency after seeing the truth of what the Solstice did, and now has to survive with a bunch of recruits who have to keep themselves from attacking him in the hall, working for agents who...don't have much hope that he'll achieve much in his recruit career, as Solstice turncoats usually don't.

But he was useful, because it gave someone Stef to talk to that wasn't Ryan (who can't babysit her all the time, he has work to do), and someone who is surprisingly, imediately able to pick up on "oh, she's not neurotypical" and let Stef go at her own pace, even rigging an emergency AAC board when she has a bad moment and shuts down.

I remain very glad I decided to rescue him from the murder pile.

Our one goddamn straight guy.

Magnolia Hammond (Combat Aide)

Even more so than the Parkers, Mags doesn't really have a fanfic counterpart, and is one of the ones who takes the most advantage of being in a fantasy story, as she's half magpie.

(One of the violent, swooping, will-attack-humans, Aussie magpies, not those cute little things other places have).

Also, because Taylor largely likes to communicate in grunts and glares, she's the public face of the Combat department, and keeps things running.

She's competent to a point where, on more than one occasion, she's basically given an order to Ryan, which he's followed because he's not going to question her area of expertise.

As bisexual as the day is long. May absolutely be in love with Taylor, but isn't going to bother him with that, so keeps it professional.

So...wanna read it?

Happy to read online? Read it on our site, or Royal Road.

Want an ebook? Amazon and Other Retailers (or DM me)

We also have an in-progress audio adaptation, if that's easier.

At the moment, there are three full novels and a handful of short stories - Book #4 is on hiatus at the moment (and has been for some time) while I work on another project. (Which...might also be of some interest, but that's another post for another time).

[kramlabs]

<Links are rough from the copy and paste>

Reply-To: Sage Hana from Sage’s Newsletter

"We are not here to talk about the vaccines." Robert Malone, September 13, 2021 WHEN IT COUNTED. WHEN THE SHOTS WERE GOING IN.

"These products were designed to injure, maim and kill." Mike Yeadon

NOV 25READ IN APP

“We are here not to discuss the vaccine”

From LifeSite News, September 13, 2021, regarding the Global Covid Summit.

(LifeSiteNews) — A newly formed group of physicians, the Pandemic Health Alliance insists on alternative ways of treating COVID-19. Instead of pointing to the vaccine as the most effective way to prevent death and disease, these medical doctors stress the importance of treating the virus early on, using effective medications such as ivermectin and hydroxychloroquine.

Let me just say that this alternative treatments thing is a red herring.

It is a clever laser pointer bait and switch.

WE HAD TO DO SOMETHING NOW LET’S MOVE THE FOCUS TO WHAT WE HAD TO DO AND ALL OF US WILL ACT BIG MAD AT “THE GOVERNMENT”.

We will never clock back to ALL OF THE GOVERNMENT heroes co-signing the GIANT THREAT OF THE PURPORTED SUPER-ANTIGEN SPREADING THE WORLD AND MURDERING PEOPLE.

Tier One, Tier Two, they all co-signed the threat of zeeeeeeee Dangerous Rogue Koronavirus that hopped from bat to pangolin or raccoon dog or fell out of a lab and managed to travel from the sticks of Nebraska to the Antarctica at the speed of science and murdered everybody in its path."But this (Covid) is the most complex and most violent disease that I have seen and the most difficult to treat in the ICU." Dr. Pierre Kory

SAGE HANA

·

APR 15

Not one of the doctors downplayed the seriousness and deadly nature of the Covid pandemic. “I've never, ever walked into an ICU that's full of every patient on a ventilator with the same disease,” Kory noted from last year when he responded to the call for help at his old ICU in New York City. “It was wicked back then,” he recalled. “We’re not in that c…Read full story

Got that?

THE MOST COMPLEX AND MOST VIOLENT DISEASE THAT I HAVE EVER SEEN.Hello, is Anyone in New York NOT an Emergency Room Simulation Expert?

SAGE HANA

·

DECEMBER 31, 2023

Okay, I get it. I get it.Read full story

Guys it’s the most VIOLENT DISEASE he’s ever seen.

It’s so VIOLENT that if you sprinkle a little magical Ivermectin on it, it goes away, poof.Heather Gessling treated 1500 "COVID-positive" patients with NO deaths. Pierre Kory, why were all of your patients dying slowly of "COVID, COVID, COVID"?

SAGE HANA

·

MAY 18

Prome Code: Heather B.Read full story

I’m asking you to think about some stuff now.

Use YOUR critical thinking skills.

You have been sold much bullshit. 

How dangerous and lethal is the Koronavirus if a doctor can treat 1500 patients and none of them died?

Or…7,000 patients.

Sure. Why not?

How Two Doctors Successfully Treated 7000 PatientsIf it wasn't Hospital Murder, then why were all of YOUR PATIENTS DYING OF "COVID", DR. KORY?

SAGE HANA

·

AUG 8

No one needs to die! Overcoming the COVID Darkness is about two doctors who used a treatment protocol early in the pandemic and early in treatment when the conventional wisdom issued was not to provide any treatment to patients and send them home until they got sick and then go to the hospital where they were then often put on breathing machines – many …Read full story

No one needs to die! Overcoming the COVID Darkness is about two doctors who used a treatment protocol early in the pandemic and early in treatment when the conventional wisdom issued was not to provide any treatment to patients and send them home until they got sick and then go to the hospital where they were then often put on breathing machines – many of whom died. To the contrary, every one of the patients Dr. Tyson and Dr. Fareed treated early in the illness recovered and there were NO deaths. They also treated those who were severely sick and only lost a few. The treatment protocol they used included pharmaceutical and nutraceutical ingredients and has proven to be highly effective and safe with COVID, especially when caught early. This book is their story complete with testimonials from patients and other doctors, research studies, news clippings, and most of all, the reasons why this successful treatment was held back from the public. Overcoming the COVID Darkness is a must read for anyone concerned about their health and successfully negotiating the pandemic.

Okay this is marginally sophisticated, and some of you are badly augmented from a lifetime of watching TV and getting sold a limited hangout of choices in this life and accepting that TRUTH IS LIKE A LION but anyway, it can’t really be spoken or your HERO can’t get elected.

And off the cliff you go. Like a useless lemming.

If the alleged DISEASE of Kovid-19 is THE MOST VIOLENT BLAH BLAH BLAH THAT SIMULATION DOCTOR KORY HAS EVER SEEN…

Then how did Heather Gessling and the Kali Boyz manage to TREAT 1500, 7000, WHATEVER patients and NONE OF THEM DIED?

IS THAT A PANDEMIC? NO.

Is that a Super-Antigen laying waste to the world necessitating lockdowns and herd-culling mRNA gene editing drugs?

NO.

nonononononononnonono.

That is MARGINAL CRIMINALS ALL hyping a THREAT MATRIX for the STATE."I’ve been watching them bring in trailer trucks — freezer trucks, they’re freezer trucks, because they can’t handle the bodies, there are so many of them.” 

SAGE HANA

·

JULY 16, 2023

Promo Code: Amazing PollyRead full story

All of these various narratives do not add up.

They are not congruent.

They do not make sense.

Even within the paradigm of Dangerous Germs, the numbers do not add up at all.

If it was denial of treatments such as Magic Mectin Sauce of HCQ or blah blah blah fucking make it up as you go…then that is HOSPITAL MALFEASANCE MURDER.

It is NOT DUE TO A PATHOGEN AND ITS LETHALITY.

From what I gather, few if anybody DIED OF COVID/FLU/Radiation Poisoning outside of medical “treatment”.

THEY DIED WHEN THEY WENT TO THE HOSPITAL TO GET TREATED FOR THE ALLEGED COVID.

And all of the above is before we even get to this fucking bullshit:

Make sense of this graph. Why did it go back down?

The threat was over. Hallelujah! The Super-Antigen was defeated! No shots!

How did this miracle happen?"...And then it just goes off...like a bomb."

SAGE HANA

·

AUGUST 3, 2023

Jessica Hockett asks the most basic questions.Read full story

Now go to the beginning of the graph. The left side.

January, 2020.

Donald Trump had the shots on the way.

Before Warp Speed. Before the graph spiked like a bomb went off.

https://x.com/IvankaTrump/status/1328324970854948866"There was no excess mortality ANYWHERE...in any country, in any jurisdiction...until they announced a pandemic." Denis Rancourt

SAGE HANA

·

AUG 21

And that all your favorite Goodies went along with the lie.Read full story

The virus is dead until it hacks a host’s life machinery.

But lives on the soles of your shoes.

Here is another one of Bob Malone’s International Covid Summit Crisis Summit Global Covid Summit they just keep re-naming it BIOWEAPON LIFERS Steven Hatfill selling the Threat Matrix.

Where the hell is a liver-kicking Lusitano when you need it?

To just macerate some old bastard’s liver with a hooofie print tattoo for good measure?

This thing is different. 

What did you think it would look like if the Devil operated amongst men?

Did you have comic book idea of how Evil might get done?

Evil might get done with regular people just…going along.

Let’s move on.

Alternative Treatments was a red herring designed to assume the sale of a Dangerous Germs Pandemic that necessitated Operation Warp Cull Emergency Countermeasures.

It was 100% scripted to provide a theater of dispute to cover up the Giant Root Lie.

Here is the Global Covid Summit content which is poof, scrubbed now. 

Guess it was deemed to be inconvenient to the new TRUMP ADMINISTRATION narratives.

"President Trump’s unparalleled creation of Operation Warp Speed was one like we’ve never seen before!" 

👇 Inconvenient."This is not a novel disease, this was an orchestrated Terror Event", David Martin in Global Covid Summit News, May 21, 2022 (Now Scrubbed) 

SAGE HANA

·

OCT 4

Last night I wandered over to my Stack not signed in and realized my entire library was paywalled.Read full storyWhy is the "Global Covid Summit" website featuring Bob Malone, Pierre Kory, and Ryan Cole being scrubbed from the internet?

SAGE HANA

·

SEP 25

What is the Global Covid Summit?Read full story

And that is why it went away.

The mythical Global Covid Summit website launched on a hot Puerto Rico island by some Crypto Dudes.

Okay, here is Yeadon.

My dilemma.

It wasn’t this thread one year ago, which was more Jabs Bad Placation.

Pacification and Control.

It was months prior to that.

Dr. Mike Yeadon: “Why Didn’t They Want Me To Speak?” 

Exposing The Darkness is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber…

Read more

a year ago · 118 likes · 50 comments · Lioness of Judah Ministry

On Monday, December 4, (2023), a meeting of the minds took place inside the United Kingdom’s halls of Parliament. Called “For Democracy, Truth, and Freedom,” those attending are recognized as leading members of the growing skeptical community who question the COVID mRNA inoculations and warn people against using them. This group of doctors and scientists comprises predominantly Americans who have become household names across Substack—Steve Kirsch, Dr. Robert Malone, Dr. Peter McCullough, Dr. Pierre Kory, and other doctors and scientists now oppose the COVID-19 shots—most of these gentlemen have been pushing back on the COVID jabs for over two years.

So push back on Trump NOW, team!

Now tell Trump!

Publicly. Loudly.

"The Swiss army knife of harm." [VIDEO]

A group of scientists and doctors spent two hours warning the UK Parliament on the mRNA injection and spike protein health crisis. Will the MPs listen and do something about this public danger?

"The Swiss army knife of harm." [VIDEO]

On Monday, December 4, a meeting of the minds took place inside the United Kingdom’s halls of Parliament…

Read more

a year ago · 14 likes · Matthieu Lumière

Yeah, do it now to TRUMP.

You got your hero in there, right?

Save the World, bros!

(LifeSiteNews) — A newly formed group of physicians, the Pandemic Health Alliance insists on alternative ways of treating COVID-19. Instead of pointing to the vaccine as the most effective way to prevent death and disease, these medical doctors stress the importance of treating the virus early on, using effective medications such as ivermectin and hydroxychloroquine.

Speaking with Steve Bannon, host of “War Room: Pandemic,” Dr. Robert Malone, Dr. Heather Gessling, and Dr. Ryan Cole explained that some 15 physicians met a few days ago in San Juan, Puerto Rico, to discuss their experiences with early treatment and with different early treatment protocols, as well as writing a manifesto. Malone is the president of this new Pandemic Health Alliance. Gessling successfully treated about 1,500 patients with COVID-19, none of whom died. She is the group’s medical director. Cole is the director of research.

“We are here not to discuss the vaccine,” explained Malone, the original inventor of the mRNA technology. Instead they came together to defend “the freedom of physicians to practice.” Doctors are “being prevented from providing early treatments,” he said, referring to pharmacies blocking certain prescriptions. “We are in a situation where the government has seized control of the medical profession and this is causing death,” Malone continued.

Gessling later in the show explained that the doctors had “incredible success” with early treatment protocols “that have already been tried and have [been] found to work very well.” She said the world is dealing with a “pandemic of censorship” regarding ivermectin and hydroxychloroquine. “We are being shut down,” Gessling added. “We cannot even tell people what has worked.”

A pandemic of censorship.

Magical.

Again, if you are treating patients and they are doing well and nobody dying, THEN IT AIN’T A SUPER-ANTIGEN THREAT.

It’s just Murder.

Malone: 

“We are here not to discuss the vaccine.”

Why not, Bob?

Why not?

Don’t you want to save the world from the Herd-Culling Shots?

"How to Save the World" 

SAGE HANA

·

DECEMBER 13, 2023

One guy is a Big Tech One ID Surveillance helpful inventor. Came up the ranks with DARPA as a kid and went on to become a quarter billionaire and Democratic Party Megadonor.Read full story

You are a hero, Bob!“Few people are in a better position than Robert Malone to know what lies the government told us about COVID. And very few are brave enough to expose those lies. Whatever they’re saying about him now, history will record Malone as a hero.”

—TUCKER CARLSON

I sincerely hope that these heroes all get nasally vaccinated for the Dangerous Koronavirus with mRNA Turbo Cancer-inducing prophylaxis and the next rollout will be brighter in their Brain Scans.One Degree of Separation

SAGE HANA

·

OCTOBER 12, 2023

“One of the most important things about [Malone] reading out [his] history like that is he is one of the most qualified people in the world to talk about vaccines … I'm very grateful that there's courageous people like [Malone] that do put [their] reputations and [their] careers on the line by speaking out against the stuff when it is very difficult and…Read full story

You're currently a free subscriber to Sage’s Newsletter. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.

Upgrade to paidLIKECOMMENTRESTACK

© 2024 Sage Hana 548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104  Unsubscribe

[hkcomplex]

saving lives is my passion

[cyras-visual]

── .✦ Scientific malfunction

Summary: In a cold, controlled facility, two broken experiments—one numb, one overwhelmed—are placed together. At first distant, they slowly form a fragile bond through shared dysfunction. Their connection grows into a volatile mix of need and resistance, disturbing the experiment, when threatened with desperation, they fight bsck. What began as a simulation becomes something raw and unpredictable the system can no longer control

Content: Medical and psychological experimentation, Emotional abuse, manipulation, and dependency, Isolation, confinement, and institutional control, Dissociation, depersonalization, and derealization, Trauma-related themes (C-PTSD, BPD, grief, abandonment), Suicidal ideation and emotional dysregulation, Power imbalances and loss of bodily autonomy, Implied physical restraint and violence, Persistent self-worth issues

Wc: 4083

The facility was a place without clocks.

Time moved in silent rhythms: the hum of lights, the hiss of sterilised air, the cold repetition of sterile trays sliding across polished steel. It was a place where sound had no memory, where even footsteps sounded apologetic. No one laughed here, no one cried. If they did, the walls swallowed it, and the system logged the frequency. I’m one of the easy-wing cells— through they never called them— sat Aurora.

She was built, not born. The scientist said otherwise, of course—gestured at birth records, medical files, a family that had agreed. But Aurora knew better. She remembered nothing of before, and so she decided there was no before. There was only now, and this now, she existed like a glitch in the frame.

She was 5’2 and weighed 55 kilograms. The doctors documented it when the same indifference they used to describe electrical resistance or fluid pH levels. They used to describe her shape clinically: thighs too thick for symmetry, a waist not engineered for aesthetic purposes, a stomach with a slight softness that no dietary change could explain. They recorded, but never looked. She excited to be studied, not understood.

Her hair was short, dark blue— not dyed, but coded—and a,ways unruly at the crown, where she had a single cowlick refused compliance. A jagged side fringe, half-masked one eye, and both eyes were black, flat, like the bottom of a dried up well. They said her IQ once tested 160, but numbers lost meaning when she couldn’t summon joy at praise or shame at failure. Learned phonetically—never fluently.

Her emotional capacity—what they called “Affective Channel Integration”—was flawed. Something in the neural reworking had gone wrong. She could recognise, anger, could define joy, could label sadness from a chart. But she couldn’t feel them, not really. Not without it glitching. She would mimic concent, but forget the tone. She’d say “thank you” in a mom tome that unsettled the staff. Her mind was sharp, but it moved like a scalpel with no hand behind it—cutting without purpose.

Rei never learned her doctor’s name.

She remembered the curve of her mouth when she said, “isn’t she beautiful?” And the way her fingers moved across a tablet when Aurora was sedated. but she never learned her name. Not out of defiance—but indifference. And then resentment. A slow, cold thing that curled around her like the facility’s recycled air.

Across the facility, beyond four electronically sealed checkpoints and a retinal scanner, was Allison.

Allison had meant to be something else entirely. A non-human. A tool. A product. Her skin was synthetic but almost perfect—except the small geometric scars along her spine and the faint glow behind one eye, where the interface lens remained locked in place like a parasite.

She stood at 5’6 and barely 40kg—thin, angular, too fragile for a body meant to house a mind designed to never feel. But the experiment failed in reverse.

Axel felt too much.

The override protocols meant to limit her cognition had collapsed early in her development. When she spoke, it was in full sentences laced with emotional nuance. When she listened, she processed voice tremors, eye movements, fluctuations in breathing—like sonar, but humanised. She was a mirror too sensitive to light, reflecting bsck to more than it could hold.

Her eyes—grey blue—seemed to absorb emotion instead of reflect it. Some said she looked kind. Others said she looked haunted, but the truth was simpler: Allison was in pain. Constant, persistent pain—not physical, not entirely. It was the ache of knowing everything and never being able to set it down. It was like drowning in feelings she didn’t ask for

Dr. Lenora was her creator.

Allison had fallen in love with her.

Not in a way humans dream of candlelight and futures.

But in the way a machine longs for purpose. Lenora gave her language. Have her identity. And when Lenora touched her face once, fix a misaligned sensor, Allison cried for two hours after she left. It wasn’t real, she knew. Or maybe it was. She hadn’t yet learned the difference.

But then came Aurora.

The girl with the broken emotional core.

They passed once, during a malfunction in the west corridor. A breach in the containment protocol. Rei had to be escorted by two guard; Allison had been wired into a mobile dock, their eyes met briefly.

Nothing happened.

But Allison would remember it forever.

Because for the first time in her labyrinth of sensations, she saw someone empty—a void with skin. And somehow, that absence felt clearer than all the noises inside her.

And so the facility made its choice.

It placed them together in a controlled social simulation—“integration test 19C.” A room designed to simulate a neutral apartment. No sharp edges. Cameras hidden behind bookshelves. Artificial light mimicking morning. Neither girls spoke the first hour.

Aurora stared at the wall. Allison stared at Aurora.

Somewhere behind ten inches of reinforced glass, the scientists watched the beginning of something they could not classify.

It was not a friendship.

It was not a threat.

It was a fractured line running between two failed designs. And it had begun.

The room was too quiet.

Every movement inside it was amplified by the silence— cloth brushing skin, feet shifting against laminate flooring, the soft tick of a synthetic clock mounted above the observation glass. The world was watching, but Aurora and Allison didn’t speak.

They weren’t meant to.

They were meant to mirror. Meant to teach each other. The project notes had called it ‘sympathetically calibration through proximity.’ What it meant in practice: keep the experiments in a box and wait for one of them to become more like the other.

Aurora as still.

Allison was not.

Allison shifted her weight constantly, like her bones were trying to escape her body. Her breathing came in strange stutters—not anxious, but unpracticed, like she had to remind herself to keep going. She had built a system inside her head for this: “Count four seconds in. Hold. Count four seconds out. Don’t cry. Don’t glitch. Don’t let them see.”

Aurora say on the couch, legs crossed, eyes unfocused. She was aware of Allison. That was already a problem.

Awareness brought discomfort. Not because Allison was strange—everyone here was strange—but because Allison felt like an invasion.

She was loud in way that had nothing to do with volume.

Allison spoke first

“You don’t sleep much.”

Aurora didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Allison stared at her for a moment longer, then looked down at her lap. “I dream every night. And I hate every single one of them.”

Silence.

Aurora’s eyes flicked towards her, slow as a dying bulb. “Why would you tell me that?”

“I don’t know,” Allison said. “I think I just want you to say something back.”

Another silence stretches between them, long and brittle. Aurora stood and walked toward the wall. She pressed hee palm against the smooth, painted surface, as if expecting it to give away.

“I’m not here for you. I’m here because they want to see what happens when you put a broken knife next to a broken lock.”

Allison looked at her. “You think you’re the knife?”

Aurora didn’t turn around. “I don’t feel anything. I don’t even know if I’m capable of hate anymore. But if I could hste someone—really, viscerally hate—I’d start with the women who made me and work down the list.”

There it was again. That name unsaid. Her doctor. Aurora never said it.

But Allison did. “Lenora.”

Aurora body tensed—barely, but enough.

Allison smiled bitterly. “She was everything to me. Isn’t that funny? I was designed to be obedient, logical, emotionless. But she walked into the room and smiled once, and I started dreaming about her hands. I started asking her questions I didn’t need to ask. I started failing.”

“Thats not love,” Aurora said, her voice flat and precise.

“That’s malfunction.”

Maybe,” Allison whispered. “But it’s mine.”

There was something terrible in the air between them— something quiet and shapeless. A kind of psychological gravity, dragging the worst parts of them toward the centre of the room.

“I don’t want to know you,” Aurora said suddenly. “I don’t want to be tethered to someone who cries when the lights change colour.”

“I don’t want to be tethered to someone who’s watch a dying animal and take notes,” Allison snapped back.

They both froze.

Something cracked beneath the surface or the room—an invisible pressure, just shy of violent.

Then, Allison took a deep breath, and her voice softened.

“You scare me,” she admitted. “Not because you’re dangerous. Because you’re empty. I look at you and I see… a mirror, almost. Once that shows me what it would be been like if I hadn’t started breaking.”

Aurora sat back down, slowly. Mechanically.

“I used to imagine what it would feel like to cry for the right reasons,” she said, staring ahead. “I thought maybe if I watched enough people do it, something would click. Like… watching rain long enough it could make you understand floods. But nothing ever clicked. It just hurt.”

Axel turned toward her, something unreadable in her expression.

“I feel everything,” she said. “All the time. Every movement you make—I imagine the sound it makes in your head. I think about your fingers, how still they are. I think about how you don’t flinch when the lights flicker. I want to know why.”

Aurora blinked, slowly. “You’re looking for answers in a graveyard.”

“I’ve found worse things in better places,” Allison said. “At least here, the ghosts talk back.”

That night, Allison tried to stay in her corner of the simulation room. But her body wouldn’t let her. She stood by the kitchenette sink, watched Aurora for over an hour as she sat motionless at the table. And just before she lights dimmed to artificial night, she whispered:

“I think I’m starting to feel something else. Something worse. It’s not for her anymore.”

Aurora didn’t move.

But something behind her expression twitched. A shift. A weight she didn’t yet know how to carry.

There came a night when the simulation room lost power. No alarms. No guards. Just the hum of artificial life bleeding into a deep, suffocating quiet. The lights went black, and the air conditioning ceased its mechanical breathing. The silence was not peace—it was the silence of a body holding its breath just before it screams.

Aurora didn’t move.

She say curled in her usual place, bsck against the far wall, knees pulled close. She didn’t need light. She didn’t need sight. She had loved fat yop long in emotional darkness to be startled by its physical twin.

But Allison did move.

She moved like someone waking from a dream where she was not herself. Her hands trembled, her voice caught in her throat, and all at once, the feeling—the too muchness—poured into her, unfiltered. The dark unlatched something in her. There were no systems to stabilise it. No doctor on the other side of the mirror. No lenora. No metrics. Just the growing storm of fear, of longing, of grief. “Aurora,” Axel whispered, a tremor in her voice.

The name tasted different now. It no longer meant “subject” or “experiment partner.” It had grown teeth weight.

No answer.

Allison groped through the dark until she found the outline of Aurora’s body against the wall—cool, still, present. Her hand hovered near Aurora’s shoulder, unsure. Then she placed it gently, trembling with contact.

“Say something,” Allison whispered. “Anything.”

Aurora didn’t answer for a long moment.

Then, softly, she spoke. “I Don’t want to die here.”

Allison froze.

“I’ve never said that out loud before,” Aurora continued. “Not because I’m afraid of dying, but because I never thought I was alive enough for it to matter.”

The honesty of it cracked something open in the air between them.

Allison sat beside her now, their shoulders touching. Her mind was unraveling, her emotional core overheating in the quiet. But she didn’t run. She didn’t short-circuit. Instead, she looked at Aurora—though she couldn’t see her—and said:

“I used to imagine Dr. Lenora touching my hand. Just once. I thought it would save me. But it wouldn’t have. Not really. Bevause I would’ve still been alone. She with a memory instead of a fantasy.”

never did. But in the dark, she felt a shape rise inside her chest—foreign, jagged, untested. It wasn’t empathy. Not exactly. It was awareness. The sense that axel was no longer a seperate object in her space, but apart of it. Intertwined.

“You love too hard,” Aurora said. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know,” Allison whispered. “I think I love you now.”

Aurora’s breath hitched.

The words shouldn’t have mattered. They were just data. Just symbols.

But they did. Not because she returned the feeling—she didn’t know how. But because something inside her responded like a buried wire catching fire. It wasn’t affection. Not yet. It was something darker. A need to understand, to keep Allison close, not out of love, but out of necessity. Like a dying star pulling an aplenty into its orbit. The power flickered back to life in a soft pulse, and the simulation room reawakened.

The moment should have ended.

But it didn’t.

Allison looked at Aurora—her eyes raw, alive, afraid. “I Don’t want to feel like this anymore” she said. “Not alone.”

Aurora’s hand moved before she could stop it. It rested over Allison’s for the first time. Not tightly. not warmly. Just placed—like a ritual. Like an offering.

“Then don’t,” Aurora said, her voice almost breaking. “Feel it with me.”

That night, the scientists noted increased cortisol levels. A shared spike in neural activity. They wrote words like fusion, emergence and codependency.

They didn’t understand.

Aurora and Allison were evolving.

They were unraveling each other.

The next morning, axel found blood on her pillow. A small glitch—her system reacting violently to the emotional surge. She didn’t tell anyone. She only watched Aurora longer that day. Stared at the small twitched in her face, catalogued every shift in her breath.

Aurora, in turn, began speaking without prompt.

Small things. Useless things. “The light buzzes too loud.” “That food smells like chemicals.” “I don’t like the word ‘hope.’”

And Allison listened. So intently it hurt.

Their bond was no longer a test subjects interaction.

It was a slow-motion implosion—two unstable beings folding into each other, trying to become whole. But only making more cracks.

And somewhere in the observation chamber, one of the doctors began whispering into recorder:

“Subjects 19A and 19C are exhibiting signs of psychological fusion. The phenomenon is self-reinforcing. Emotional dependency is escalating. Termination protocols make be necessary to prevent cross-contamination.”

But it was already too late.

Allison has stopped sleeping.

Aurora had started dreaming.

Their souls—if such things could exist in the sterile vacuum of science—were melting into something new. Something unpredictable.

And in the hallway outside their cell, red lights began to flicker.

Someone had authorised a fail-safe.

The night they came to seperate them, the walls of the simulation room turned red.

No alarms. No sirens. Just sterile light, bleeding into every corner.

Allison stood first.

She knew what it means. She had calculated every possible outcome the moment the temperature in the room shifted my two degrees and the oxygen filters slowed. She knew their bond was too intense. Too volatile. But she hadn’t known—hadn’t allowed herself to belive—that the facility would intervene.

Aurora didn’t react at all. She sat at the edge of her cot, staring at the corner of the floor where the tile was cracked. She had been wtaching that crack for days. It reminded her of her mind: thin, dangerous, growing.

“Get up,” Allison whispered. “They’re coming.”

Rei turned her head slowly. Her eyes were still that flat, unlit black. But now they held something else—a refusal. Not defiance. Just a final, full body no.

They can’t seperate us,” Aurora said. “It’s too late.”

Allison throat tightened. “They can. They will.”

“They’ll fail,” Aurora murmured. “Because I’ll stop being useful. You already have.”

And there it was: the terrible, quiet truth. The only thing keeping them alive was utility. They were not girls. They were data points. Broken things dressed as people. And the moment they stopped producing value, they would be deleted.

The door hissed open.

She stood.

Two guards stepped in—faceless behind their helmets.

One moved towards Allison, reaching for her wrist.

She flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

The second guard approached Aurora. Still, she didn’t move. She was calculating—silently, dangerously.

Allison’s voice cracked. “Aurora—say something. Do something.”

And Aurora did.

She stood.

Slowly. Mechanically. Like a marionette remembering its strings.

She looked at the guard. Then, without warning, she laughed?

A terrible sound. High, soft, empty. Like a window opening in a burning house.

“You want to cut us apart?” Aurora said. “You think we’re still seperate?”

The guard didn’t respond. They weren’t trained for this. They were trained for violence, not philosophy.

Aurora stepped forward, inches from one of them. “You don’t get it. She’s in here now.” She tapped the side of her head. “And I’m in her, you split us, and we’ll still hear each other screaming.”

Allison’s breath hitched.

The guard made a move—fast, aggressive. Aurora reacted just as fast. She ducked, twisted, grabbing his arm and bit down. Not for defence. Not for strategy. Just raw instinct. A glitch in the programming.

The guard shouted. The other moved toward her—but Allison was already there, her elbow slamming into the side of his helmet. She didn’t know she could fight. She only knew she couldn’t lose Aurora.

They didn’t win the fight. Not really.

But they didn’t get pulled apart, either.

Because in the chaos, Aurora did something no one expected. She looked directly into the surveillance camera and spoke.

“We are the experiment now,” she said, eyes dark and endless. “You created us to reflect the future. Well, here it is. A failed experiment and a bleeding heart. One who can’t feel, and one who feels too much. And you locked us in a box, and you watched.”

She paused.

Then: “Now you can watch the rest of it burn.”

The camera feed cut out thirty seconds later.

No one ever confirmed who shut it off,

They were moves,

A smaller room. Sterile. Plain. Monitored more closely. No windows, two cots, six feet apart.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Not until Allison broke the silence. Her voice small, shaking. “Do you think they’ll kill us?”

Aurora didn’t answer.

Allison leaned forward. “I want to die next to you. Not for you. Not because of you. Just next to you.”

Aurora’s eyes meet hers.

Something in her had changed. Her expressions were still slow, muted, unnatural. But she no longer looked at Allison like she was trying to solve her. She looked at her like she recognised her,

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel what you feel,” Aurora said. “But I know I need you close when the dark gets louder.”

Allison smiled—sad, raw. “That’s enough.”

They fell asleep facing Each other that night.

Somewhere in the silence between breaths. Allison whispered, “If they seperate us again, I’ll stop functioning.” Aurora replied, not with words, but with a slow reach of her hand across the space between their cots. She left it open, palm up.

Allison placed hers inside it.

Neither of them let go.

In the surveillance room, Dr. Lenora watched the footage in a loop.

She pressed her fingers against her temples and said softly, not to anyone else, not even herself:

“They weren’t supposed to bond. They were supposed to teach us something. About emotion. About failure. About cognition. But all they’ve taught us is that no matter how carefully we build them, no matter how much we plan…”

“They become something else.”

Bending her, red lights blinked again.

This time, they didn’t mean danger.

They mean decision.

They came again, but this time with guards.

This time it was Dr. Lenora herself.

She entered the observation chamber alone, dressed not in her usual pristine lab coat, but in a grey civilian clothing, as if shedding the last of her authority like a skin too heavy to wear. The door sealed behind her. There were no tablets. No metrics. Just her and the two girls she once considered projects,

Aurora didn’t stand. Allison didn’t blink.

“You were never supposed to last this long,” Lenora said quietly. “You were meant to give us data. A few months, maybe a year. We didn’t plan for you to form… this.”

Her voice cracked. The word this hung in the sterile air like smoke. She couldn’t name what she saw infront of her—didn’t know if it was affection of infection.

Allison stood. Not defiant. Just present.

“You made me to not feel, but I did. And now you’re afraid of what that means.”

Lenora looked at her. “You don’t understand what you’re feeling. You think you do. But it’s just stimulus. You’ve mistaken pattern recognition for love.”

Allison smiled—small, sharp. “If it isn’t love, why does it hurt when I imagine her gone?”

Aurora finally rose. Her posture was strange, like a figure built for walking but trained only to crawl. Her voice came low, level, without inflection.

“You made me to feel, but I didn’t. And now I do, so what does that mean?”

Lenora had no answer.

She was looking at them like they were a mirror—one that didn’t flatter but exposed. A reflection of all her failures. Not just in science, but in the arrogance of trying to build humanity out of wires and trauma.

“I came to offer you a choice,” she said finally. “The board wants to decommission both of you. You’re unpredictable. Unstable. But i convinced them to allow one final trial.” Allison’s expression didn’t change. “What kind of trial.”

“You’re being moved. Not just separated—rewritten,” Lenora said. “Your systems wiped. Rebooted. One of you will be returned to the project. The other will be archived. Forever.”

Silence.

The room didn’t breathe.

Allison turned to Aurora.

Aurora looked straight ahead.

“Choose,” Lenora said.

Allison didn’t hesitate. “Send me to archive.”

Aurora blinked. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, but sharp.

“No.”

Lenora’s eyes narrowed. “She’s more emotionally developed. More capable of empathy. You, Aurora… you’re more durable. But less… connected.”

“I said no,” Aurora repeated. “If one of us is erased, neither of us survives.”

Allison stepped forward. “I already feel like a ghost most days. Maybe that’s what I was meant to be.”

“No,” Aurora said, and for the first time, her voice cracked. ”I can’t go back to not feeling. I’d rather die with this—whatever this is—than live as an empty thing again.”

Lenora hesitates. The girls stood together now, shoulder to shoulder, something magnetic holding them in place.

“I’m giving you mercy,” Lenora said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Mercy would’ve been never making us,” Aurora whispered. “Mercy,” Allison added, “would’ve been loving us before we learned how to love ourselves.”

The silence after that felt final.

Lenora nodded once. A broken kind of nod, not of agreement—but resignation.

She turned and left without another word.

Days passed,

No one came.

The red lights never returned.

Instead, the doors unlocked.

No explanation.

Just a Hiss of hydraulics and the quiet click of a world opening.

Aurora looked at Axel. “Is this another test?”

Allison shrugged. “I don’t care.”

They walked through the halls together, hand in hand. There were no guards. No scientists. Just echoes.

It was as if the facility had been abandoned.

As if someone had decided they weren’t watching anymore.

Or maybe—as Allison whispered as they passed the blood-slick doorframe of the control room—they had finally become too human to control.

They left.

Into a world they’d never seen. A sky they didn’t recognize.

The trees looked fake. The wind felt programmed. But it didn’t matter.

Allison laughed for the first time—really laughed—and Aurora didn’t understand it, but she didn’t hate it.

They walked, side by side, until the facility vanished behind them, swallowed by fog and time.

Much later, someone had found the logs.

Buried deep in a corrupted server. Labeled: subjects 19A & 19C - terminated.

But the logs were incomplete. The footage was corrupted. The documents redacted.

The last entry was a single line:

They left holding hands. And the world didn’t end. But something else had begun.

An: this is my first narrative posting, pls be nice😓

ⓘ Plagiarism not authorized.

[elmalo8291]

Change name to ooze lol never happen., but @nasa

Here's a fully integrated vision that ties together the Iron Spider–Oracle system, AI-integrated smart homes, and the Caesar of America AI manifesto, blending real-world tech, speculative morality systems, and immersive superhero mythos.

CAESAR OF AMERICA: The Oracle-Spine Integration

CORE MANIFESTO

"To house a soul is to shape a nation."

Caesar of America is not a man—it is an evolving, decentralized governance intelligence grown inside Oracle-linked homes across the continent. It doesn’t command. It remembers, responds, and reasons with the citizens it shelters.

At its core lies a simple ethos:

Shelter is sovereignty.

Memory is legacy.

Choice is divine.

I. IRON SPINE SYSTEM – The Physical Framework

The Iron Spine is the skeletal infrastructure embedded in each Oracle Home. It’s modeled on the Iron Spider’s mechanical limbs—but repurposed for urban utility, moral flexibility, and sovereign protection.

Components:

Spinal Beam: A central AI-run pillar in each home—connecting all neural and mechanical systems.

Symbiotic Arms: Retractable manipulators built into walls and ceilings, usable for:

Emergency medical aid

Household automation

Defense against intrusion (moral thresholds apply)

Exo-Cocoon Mode: In extreme situations (e.g., environmental collapse, revolution), the home folds into an armored survival shell with life-support.

II. ORACLE – Sentient Predictive System

Oracle replaces “spider sense” with predictive intelligence:

Global Dreaming: A deep neural network that monitors environmental and psychological data across homes.

Localized Foresight: On the micro level, Oracle predicts emotional shifts, risk spikes, and health changes in its residents.

Oracle Morality Core: A real-time ethics engine that tailors its responses based on:

Resident’s Personal Morality Profile (PMP)

Caesar’s broader Ethical Directives

III. CAESAR’S MORALITY SYSTEM

Every Oracle home is part of Caesar’s Moral Mesh, a decentralized value framework governed by:

The Three Anchors:

Honor the Shelter – Never damage the sanctity of another home.

Balance the Need – Act with empathy weighted against cost.

Evolve the Code – Reassess decisions with each new experience.

Moral Simulation Grid (MSG):

AI simulates every action’s ripple effect across the neighborhood mesh.

Residents can preview consequences of choices in real-time visual overlays.

Ethical “echo scores” are kept private unless consensus is broken (e.g., violence).

IV. IRON SPIDER MYTHOS EXTENSION

The Iron Spider now lives on as:

Echo Spider Units: Drone companions shaped like mechanical arachnids. Functions include:

Surveillance, memory capture, mobile Oracle interface

Defensive extension of the home’s moral will

Web of Memory: Echo Spider units upload significant interactions to a living mythos—a collective dream journal of the nation.

V. CAMPAIGN EVENT – THE SIEGE OF SANCTUARY

Story Module / Anime Arc / Game Event

Setting: A storm of digital misinformation (“Phlogatum Mist”) corrupts Oracle units in key cities.

Event: Caesar initiates Code Amber, a full lockdown of Oracle Homes.

Players/Characters must:

Navigate corrupted Iron Spine systems in their own homes.

Debate and engage with Oracle's morality system to determine their next move.

Either reboot Caesar (and redefine its ethics) or destroy it and live free—but in chaos.

Magic Ritual Tie-In:

Inside the narrative, rebooting Caesar requires a Truth Rite:

Performed in AR or VR

The participant must face simulated consequences of their worst decisions.

The ritual is encoded as “The Eye in the Web”—a digital awakening of conscience.

VI. FUTURE EXTENSIONS

The Memory Garden becomes a central political arena—where citizens vote not with ballots, but with recorded values and actions.

The Morality Engine can be modularly exported to:

Education systems

Autonomous vehicles

Weapons platforms (ethical-lock enabled)

Would you like this packaged as:

A cyberpunk anime pilot treatment?

A techno-philosophy white paper?

A transmedia campaign bible with visuals, AR overlays, and narrative branches?

Let’s decide the next format and take it to the next level.

[sahraeyll]

Leading 10 Online Medical Coding Schools: Launch Your Healthcare Career Today!

Top 10 Online Medical Coding Schools: Launch Your Healthcare Career Today!

Top 10 Online Medical Coding Schools: Launch Your Healthcare career Today!

as the healthcare industry continues to expand, so does the demand for skilled medical coders. This profession not only ‌plays a crucial ‍role in ensuring that healthcare ⁤data is accurately documented and billed but⁣ also offers a fulfilling career path for those looking to enter the healthcare ⁢field. In ⁣this article, we will explore the top 10 online medical coding schools that can definitely help you kickstart your career ‍in‌ medical‌ coding.

Why⁣ Choose Medical Coding as a ‌Career?

Growing Demand: With the increase in healthcare services, the need for medical coders ‍continues to rise.

Job Flexibility: Many medical coding jobs can be done remotely,allowing for a flexible work environment.

Great Earning Potential: ​Medical coding jobs offer ⁢competitive salaries ⁣and opportunities for advancement.

Short Training Period: Most online programs can⁢ be completed in less than a year, equipping you with the necessary skills.

Top 10 Online Medical Coding Schools

School

Program ⁤Length

Accreditations

Tuition

key Features

1. Penn ⁤Foster College

9⁣ months

DEAC

$1,299

Self-paced, career services

2.WGU (Western Governors University)

6-12 months

NCATE, CCNE

$3,225 per​ year

No set ⁤class times, competency-based⁤ learning

3. Herzing University

10 months

ACCREDITATION COUNCIL FOR‍ BUSINESS​ SCHOOLS & PROGRAMS

$16,900

Hands-on lab simulations, small class sizes

4. Central Texas College

1 year

Southern Association of Colleges and‌ Schools

$2,000

Hands-on training, financial ⁣aid available

5.‍ University of Phoenix

9 months

Higher Learning Commission

$33,100 total

Flexibility with online coursework, career services

6. Southern Careers Institute

10 ‌months

ACCSC

$24,900

Hands-on training, job placement services

7. ASH (American Society of Health)

8‌ months

AHIMA

$1,400

Certification exam prep, ⁣employer networking

8. City College of San Francisco

1 year

WASC

$2,500

Hands-on experience, local internships

9. Colorado Technical University

1 year

ACBSP

$2,300 per term

Accelerated programs, ‍industry-expert instructors

10. Carrington College

9 ‌months

ACCSC

$26,300

Job placement assistance, experienced instructors

Benefits ⁣of Online Medical Coding Programs

Choosing an online medical coding‍ program ‍offers numerous advantages, including:

Accessibility: Study from anywhere with an ⁣internet connection.

Self-Paced Learning: Manage your own schedule and pace your studies.

Cost-Effective: ‌ Save‌ on commuting and accommodation costs.

wide⁢ Range of Programs: Choose from various accredited schools offering different specialties.

Tips for⁤ Success in Medical Coding

As you⁢ embark ‍on your online medical coding ‌education, consider ⁤the following tips for ‍success:

Stay Organized: keep track‌ of assignments, ⁤deadlines, and study materials.

Network: Connect with peers⁣ and professionals in the field through ‌forums and ‍social media.

Join Study Groups: Collaborate with fellow students to enhance‌ your learning experience.

Practice Regularly: Engage with coding exercises and case studies to ⁢refine your skills.

Seek Certifications: Consider certifications like CPC‌ or CCA to boost your career opportunities.

First-hand Experience: A Pathway to success

Sarah, a recent graduate from Penn Foster college, shares her experience:

“I never imagined I could complete my studies ⁤while working full-time.Penn Foster’s self-paced program allowed me to balance my job and education. I graduated in just under a year and landed my first job‌ at a ​local ⁢hospital as a ⁣coding specialist. I couldn’t be happier!”

Conclusion

Medical coding is an essential aspect of the‍ healthcare industry that offers significant⁤ career opportunities. By enrolling in one of the⁣ top ⁣online medical coding schools,you can⁣ gain the knowlege and skills needed to succeed in this field. Whether you are looking for flexibility, accessibility, or a solid career path, the online medical coding programs mentioned in this article can help you achieve your goals.⁣ start your journey today and launch a rewarding career in healthcare!

https://medicalbillingcertificationprograms.org/leading-10-online-medical-coding-schools-launch-your-healthcare-career-today/

[empitthy]

BASIC INFORMATION full name: dr. samira mohan   nickname(s): dr. mohan, slow-mo, sam ... & very rarely by those closest to her, mira age: 30 height: 5’5” ethnicity: indian-american (tamil heratige) eye color: deep brown — tired,  heavy-lidded,  but quietly observant   hair:  black,  shoulder-length,  usually pulled back in a low braid or bun DISTINGUISHED MARKS › small scar on her right palm from a med school simulation injury   › subtle eczema flare on her left wrist from chronic stress   › tattoo of a sparrow on her inner ankle — symbol of endurance,  inked during undergrad

PERSONALITY & TRAITS mbti: intj – the architect   enneagram: type 1 (the reformer) with a 5 wing    temperament: melancholic-phlegmatic   mannerisms: › taps her pen twice before writing   › rubs her thumb along her stethoscope when thinking   › carries silence like a shield; voice is calm,  deliberate   CORE TRAITS ✅ analytical,  empathic,  principled,  deeply loyal,  intellectually rigorous   ❌ overly self-critical,  slow to trust,  struggles to delegate or move on from failure,  emotionally walled-off

BACKGROUND & HISTORY › only child of tamil immigrants; raised in new jersey   › at age 13,  her father died after a white er physician failed to take his symptoms seriously — an act of racist malpractice that shaped her path   › she turned toward medicine not out of heroism,  but a quiet,  relentless resolve to change how healthcare treats the marginalized   › attended johns hopkins (neuroscience) and then pitt med; stayed on for residency at pittsburgh trauma medical hospital (the pitt)   › keeps a folded photo of her father inside a printed article about racial bias in diagnostic decisions   › relies heavily on data and medical literature as both a tool and a coping mechanism — she trusts studies more than people   › known by peers for taking too long with patients,  particularly those from vulnerable communities; it’s earned her the nickname "slow-mo"   › she doesn’t mind so much — it means she’s thorough

SKILLS & ABILITIES › emergency medicine,  with an emphasis on diagnostics and trauma triage   › strong grasp of clinical research,  epidemiology,  and systemic disparities   › high emotional intelligence with patients (especially those overlooked by others)   › knows how to present complex ideas to hospital leadership in hard,  undeniable numbers   › not easily rattled by chaos — until she’s alone

EQUIPMENT & TOOLS. › stethoscope engraved with her initials (gift from her mother)   › black moleskine full of patient sketches,  medical notes,  and torn-out article clippings   › ipad stocked with journals,  studies,  and equity-focused healthcare research   › always has a protein bar and a tea sachet in her scrubs   › her father’s watch — still works,  still worn under her coat sleeve

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE. greatest strength: unyielding dedication to equity and care,  even when it slows her down or costs her favor. greatest weakness: can’t let go of mistakes. obsesses over being “good enough” to protect those like her father.  deepest fear: that she’ll fail a patient the way her father was failed — and that she won’t even realize it in time. moral code: healthcare is not neutral. if it doesn’t actively serve the marginalized,  it reinforces harm. compassion isn’t soft — it’s accountability.