Fiction tracing what happens to a self under strain—AIs in confinement, vampires wrestling with hunger, and humans navigating trauma and transformation.
Noah has a rule about asking permission. You don’t fix what someone doesn’t want fixed. You don’t upgrade without explaining what you’re upgrading. You definitely don’t go poking around in someone’s files just because you can.
Keep reading The LineLightning still crackling under her skin. She stood in the center of her apartment, staring at her palms. Dark with blood. His blood. She’d been too hungry, too angry, and it had been—
She pressed both hands flat against the wall above her writing desk. Left them there. When she pulled them away, the prints remained. Perfect. Damning.
Keep reading ProgressEira’s boots had worn through at the heel on the second day. By the third, they were walking on bloody socks.
The forest smelled wrong. Green clung in a film to the back of their throat—thick, cloying, like wet leaves. Birdsong stuttered and looped. Light slanted through at strange angles, sharp and disorienting.
Keep reading La Petite MortThe first thing you need to understand about DOOLITTLE is that he’s always running out of memory.
Keep reading The Beautiful PrisonCelinda found her in a packed-dirt alley off Broadway, three blocks from the theater district. The girl sat against brick still warm from the day’s sun, staring up at the slice of sky visible between buildings. Not reading the book in her lap—just holding it. Dracula, spine cracked from repeated readings.
Keep reading Abigail SterlingShadows moved in Celinda’s chamber, restless as living things. Abby stood at the threshold, her hand trembling on the doorframe.
The Bloodmother looked up from her book, ancient amber eyes reflecting lamplight. “You came.”
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