Tag: flash fiction

Disciples of Grit

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

It started as a joke. One night, after too many beers and an ill-advised deep dive into self-help YouTube, I posted a tweet:

“Success is a mindset. Stop making excuses. Wake up at 4 a.m. and start winning at life.”

I thought nothing of it. I went to bed, dreaming of a long, lazy Sunday.

The next morning, I woke up to 130,000 retweets.

By lunchtime, my inbox was flooded with messages. “Thank you, Master.” “Your words changed my life.” “I have cast aside weakness and now exist only to WIN.”

I checked my profile. My follower count had exploded overnight. I had somehow become an influencer. Worse—people were treating me like a guru.

I decided to lean into it a bit. I tweeted:

“The weak want comfort. The strong seek discipline. CHOOSE WISELY.”

It got 500,000 likes. Someone turned it into an inspirational Instagram post with my face superimposed over a stock image of a mountain.

By the end of the week, my followers had a name: The Disciples of Grit.

A month in, I had a website, a Patreon, and an army of devoted followers who were doing everything I said. I told them to quit caffeine—they did. I told them to sleep in the woods for mental toughness—several nearly froze to death. One guy even tattooed WAKE UP AND WIN across his forehead.

At some point, I should have stopped. Instead, I started selling online courses.

$499.99 – The Masterclass on Grit.

• Week 1: Destroying Weakness (Starting With Your Sleep Schedule).

• Week 2: Eliminating Friends Who Don’t Support Your Hustle.

• Week 3: Why Emotions Are for Losers.

The money poured in. Brands reached out for sponsorships. My face was plastered on t-shirts with slogans like PAIN IS A CHOICE and CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES.

Then things got weird.

One of my followers emailed me: “Master, when do we march?”

I blinked at the screen. March?

I scrolled through my Discord server. My followers had been… organising. Stockpiling supplies. Talking about “overthrowing the weak.”

I logged onto X. The hashtag #GritRevolution was trending.

I slammed my laptop shut.

I had accidentally started a cult.

I tried to shut it down. I posted, “Hey guys, maybe let’s not form a militant movement? Also, please don’t call me ‘Master’.”

The comments were instant:

• “A test! The Master is testing our loyalty!”

• “Yes, we must remain humble. Let us crush the weak in silence.”

• “Master, we have already begun.”

I turned on the news. There had been rallies. People in homemade WAKE UP AND WIN uniforms were chanting my slogans in the streets.

Panicked, I booked a flight to Mexico. I shaved my head. I deleted all my social media.

It wasn’t enough.

This morning, someone knocked on my door. A man wearing sunglasses and a Disciples of Grit hoodie stood there, grinning.

“Master,” he said. “The grit is in motion. We have passed your test.”

Congratulations! You’re the Chosen One

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Dave Saunders had spent his Tuesday afternoon the same way he spent most Tuesday afternoons: avoiding work, scrolling on his phone, and wondering how early was too early to microwave a pasty.

Then, the ceiling cracked open.

A booming voice echoed across the office, rattling coffee mugs and making Sandra from HR spill her tea. “DAVID SAUNDERS,” it bellowed, “YOU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE.”

Dave sighed.

“Right,” he muttered. “And what exactly am I chosen for?”

A golden portal materialised in front of his desk, swirling with celestial energy and an unreasonable amount of dramatic lighting. A robed wizard stepped through, staff in hand, eyes glowing with divine knowledge.

“Oh, brilliant,” Dave said. “Another one.”

The office workers stared. The IT guy took out his phone to record. Sandra was still mopping up her tea.

The wizard looked momentarily flustered, then recovered. “The prophecy has foretold your coming! The Dark Lord is rising! You alone can save the world!”

Dave swivelled slightly in his chair. “Yeah, see, I’m really busy today, so…”

The wizard blinked at the empty desktop surface and the Microsoft Outlook tab open to a blank email draft.

“But—but you’re the one!” the wizard stammered. “Born under the Blood Moon! Marked by fate! A warrior destined to wield the Sacred Blade and bring balance to the realm!”

Dave took a sip of his lukewarm instant coffee. “Alright, couple of things. One, I was born in Stoke-on-Trent under some very ordinary streetlights. Two, I don’t ‘wield’ anything. The last time I tried axe-throwing at a stag do, I nearly took out the instructor.”

“But the prophecy—”

“The prophecy can get in line,” Dave said, pointing at his inbox full of ignored emails. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t really have time for all that ‘hero’s journey’ nonsense. I’ve got a report due by Friday and a dentist appointment I’ve already rescheduled three times.”

The wizard hesitated. “But… the fate of the world—”

The wizard stared. The entire office stared. Even the IT guy was staring, instead of looking at his phone.

“But… this is not how these things should work,” the wizard finally said.

“Well, maybe you lot shouldn’t keep having Dark Lords popping up all the time,” Dave pointed out.

The wizard’s eyebrow twitched. His dramatic celestial glow flickered slightly.

“Besides,” Dave continued, taking another sip of his coffee, “even if I agreed to this, what’s the deal? Do I get paid? Dental? A company horse?”

“You would be rewarded with eternal glory,” the wizard said weakly.

“Uh-huh. And how’s the annual leave policy?”

“…There isn’t one.”

“Right. Yeah, no, I think I’ll pass.”

The wizard’s shoulders slumped. He turned to leave, then paused. “What if I offered you a powerful enchanted sword?”

Dave shrugged. “Can I trade it for a Greggs voucher?”

The wizard sighed, muttered something about “the end of civilisation,” and vanished in a puff of magical smoke.

Dave leaned back in his chair. “Honestly,” he said, “some people just don’t know how to recruit properly.”

And with that, he returned to his phone, scrolling until it was an acceptable time to microwave his pasty.

The Mirror Test

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

The test was mandatory. These days, everyone had to take it, no exceptions.

Sofia sat in the sterile white room, as the doctor reviewed her results. The Mirror Test was simple—look into the machine, let it scan you, and wait for confirmation. Human. That’s what it was supposed to say. 100% human.

The doctor wasn’t speaking. His face had gone slack.

“Something wrong?” asked Sofia.

The doctor’s eyes flicked to her, hesitant. “It’s… probably just an error.”

He tapped at the screen, then hesitated.

“Could you look in the mirror for me?” he asked. His voice was too careful, too neutral.

There was a large mirror on the wall opposite her seat. It ran from the floor to the ceiling, wide enough to reflect the entire room. She had glanced at it before.

Still, she turned her head.

The mirror was empty.

Her chair was there. The table, the lights, the doctor standing over the machine—his face pale, his breath uneven.

But she wasn’t there.

Sofia looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers. She touched her face, felt the warmth of her own skin. She was here. She was real.

The doctor’s eyes were darting towards the door. His gaze was terrified, looking around her instead of at her.

“What the hell are you?” he said, too quietly.

A sharp click came from the door behind her. Locking. The lights flickered out. The doctor screamed.

Sofia always felt more comfortable in the dark.

A Day in the Life of a Pigeon Who’s Seen Too Much

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

06:00 – The Awakening

I jolt awake, heart pounding. The nightmares are back. The things I’ve seen. The horrors. The discarded chips left to rot. The toddler who gripped a handful of bread and then… just walked away. The betrayal.

I shake off the memories, ruffle my feathers, and fly off into another day of survival.

06:30 – Breakfast

The scent of stale dough lingers in the air. Near the bin, a chunk of bagel sits in the dust, untouched. My instincts scream at me: Trap. I’ve seen it before. An easy meal never comes without risk.

I scan the area. No hawks, no sudden movements. Hunger gnaws at my gut. I swoop down, talons scraping pavement, and peck cautiously.

It’s good. Too good.

Then I hear it—the flutter of wings.

Terry. The bastard.

“Oi, that’s my bagel,” he squawkily coos, landing hard beside me.

There’s no discussion, no diplomacy. He lunges. We spiral in a flurry of wings, beaks snapping, feet clawing. The bagel is forgotten, hurled aside, rolling into the road—right into the path of a sneaky crow, who gobbles it whole.

Gone.

We pause, both panting. Terry glares at me. I glare at Terry. The battle is over, but the war? The war never ends.

11:30 – The Child

The park is busy. The air smells of damp grass, fried food, and uncertainty.

Then I see him. A small human. Sticky hands. Beady eyes. The scent of bread clings to him like a warning.

The others are moving in, but I stay back. I’ve been in this game too long. I know better.

He lifts a chubby hand. A smile spreads across his face.

Then—chaos.

He screams in delight, throws the bread into the air, then charges at us, arms flailing.

The flock erupts into a frenzy of wings and terror.

I barely escape, wings beating furiously, my heart pounding. Never trust the small ones. Never.

15:00 – The Forbidden Zone

A pigeon I don’t recognise lands beside me. His feathers are ruffled, his eyes darting back and forth.

“You ever been to The Station?” he asks.

I shudder. The Station. Where birds go in but never come out.

“I knew a pigeon,” I say, voice low. “Tried to grab a chip off the tracks once.”

The memory haunts me. The screech of metal. The blur of motion. The feathers everywhere.

“Stay away from The Station,” I cooed.

The strange pigeon nods. Then, without another word, he flies off into the grey. I watch him go, wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

19:00 – The Sky is Ours

As the sun sets, we gather on rooftops, watching the city below. The humans hurry home, their heads down, their bodies hunched against the wind. Trapped in their strange routines.

We are free. We are everywhere.

A gust of wind rattles the city. The last light of day gleams off glass and concrete.

Then I see it.

Below, a man drops an entire sandwich.

Silence.

Then the cry goes up. A battle cry.

The flock descends.

Feathers, beaks, claws—we are a storm, an unstoppable force.

Tonight, we feast.

The Price of Light

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

The sun costs six credits a minute. Most people can afford an hour or two each day, rationed in golden slices—just enough to keep their bones from aching, just enough to pretend. The wealthiest can bask for as long as they like, sprawled under its glow in the glass towers of the city centre. The poorest live in the permanent cold shadows of the lower levels, where frost bites at their skin, and the streetlights flicker like dying embers.

I can afford twenty minutes a week. But I steal more.

The rooftops are high and dangerous, but if you climb fast enough, you can reach the edges of the paid-light zones, where the sensor fields falter. It’s only a few minutes before the enforcement drones sweep by, but in that time, the sunlight feels real, mine. I let it paint my skin, let its warmth seep into my bones, let my body remember what the world used to be.

That’s where I find the girl. She’s crouched at the edge of a rooftop, staring at the city with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s maybe twelve, rail-thin, wrapped in layers of threadbare fabric. I nearly leave her alone—there’s an unspoken rule among roof thieves—but something about her makes me pause. She isn’t just basking. She looks… terrified.

“You okay?” I ask.

She turns, eyes catching the light like a stray cat’s. “It’s real.”

I frown. “What?”

“The sun.” She lifts a trembling hand towards the sky. “I thought it was a lie.”

I look at her properly now, at the pallor of her skin, the way she flinches at the breeze, how her lips tremble in the warmth. And I understand.

She has never felt sunlight before.

There are rumours, of course—about the ones born underground. The ones so poor, so discarded, that they live their whole lives in the dark. But I’d never met one. Not until now.

I step closer. She doesn’t move, still staring at the sky with something like fear. “How did you get up here?”

She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t know. I woke up here.”

A crime. An accident. And now she’s seen the truth.

The enforcement drones will come soon. The rooftop is a paid-light zone, and we don’t belong here. I should leave. But she’s still staring upwards, as if she’s afraid the sun will vanish if she looks away.

“How long do we have?” she asks, voice shaking.

I check my stolen device. “Forty seconds.”

She nods. She doesn’t ask to run. She doesn’t ask to hide. She just kneels there, bathed in gold, as if memorising the feeling of sunlight on her face.

When the sirens wail, I grab her hand.

Alien Disappointment

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

The mothership materialised over Earth in a shimmering pulse of energy. Inside, Supreme Overseer Xylox of the Galactic Concordance folded his many arms, antennae twitching with anticipation.

“This is it,” he announced to his crew. “The moment we make first contact with the dominant species of this planet.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the control room. It had been centuries of observation, endless reports, and, frankly, an exhausting amount of patience. The humans had finally developed enough technology to justify an introduction to the greater interstellar community.

“Prepare the transmission,” Xylox commanded. “Let us greet these beings of intelligence and culture.”

The communications officer, Z’rrl, activated the ship’s intergalactic broadcast system, sending a message in all known human languages:

“GREETINGS, HUMANS. WE COME IN PEACE.”

There was a pause. Then, across the world, humanity responded.

On X, #FakeAliens trended within minutes. On Facebook, thousands in cargo shorts posted aggressive, barely coherent rants about government conspiracies. Meanwhile, a group on Reddit attempted to determine the mothership’s propulsion system using only blurry screenshots.

News anchors speculated wildly. Some declared it a hoax. One station accidentally aired footage from Independence Day and caused mass panic.

Then, a missile was launched.

It didn’t even reach the mothership before exploding mid-air due to faulty engineering, but the attempt was noted.

The crew watched as the humans continued their baffling reactions. A talk show debated whether the aliens should be considered illegal immigrants. A group of influencers attempted to go viral by filming reaction videos directly beneath the mothership, while a self-proclaimed “alien hunter” fired wildly into the sky with an assault rifle he had bought for downing spacecraft.

Xylox turned to his lieutenant. “Check the records. Did we actually confirm these creatures were intelligent?”

“Uhh…” The lieutenant scrolled through a holographic tablet. “They built particle accelerators, landed on their own moon, and mapped the human genome.”

“Impressive,” Xylox admitted.

“But they also still have diseases, and, um… they think pigeons aren’t real.”

Xylox narrowed his many eyes. “What?”

“The pigeon theory,” the lieutenant explained, showing him a webpage. “Some of them believe birds aren’t real.”

Xylox read for a moment, then shut his central eye cluster. He was so very, very tired.

On Earth, the situation escalated. The U.S. president held a press conference where he made finger guns at the camera and announced that America was more than ready to go to war with “whoever those space nerds” were. The United Nations debated whether to send a diplomatic team, but before they could decide, an enterprising billionaire announced plans to build his own spaceship to “challenge the aliens to single combat.”

In the meantime, Xylox and his crew continued to observe.

One human attempted to charge the mothership with a sword. Another posted a TikTok of herself trying to “vibe” with the aliens by performing a dance. A major corporation released a limited-edition “Alien Burger” to capitalise on the hysteria.

A group of scientists, desperately trying to salvage the situation, put together a formal message inviting the aliens to discuss philosophy, science, and interstellar cooperation.

It was promptly ignored by broadcasting executives in favour of a reality TV special titled “Abduct Me!”

Xylox sighed deeply. “I was hoping for another enlightened species to share knowledge with. Instead, we got…” He gestured with his antennae vaguely towards Earth. “This.”

“What do you want to do, sir?” asked Z’rrl.

Xylox considered it. “Mark the planet as ‘underdeveloped, mildly dangerous, and deeply embarrassing.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Prepare for departure.”

The mothership shimmered, then disappeared out of the solar system.

Meanwhile, on Earth, new conspiracy theories erupted. Some claimed the aliens had left because they feared humanity’s strength. Others believed they had never been real in the first place. One particularly vocal podcaster insisted the entire thing had been staged to distract people from the rise in avocado prices.

Humanity moved on.

The Galactic Concordance never returned.

Therapy for Supervillains

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Dr Caroline Carter took a deep breath as she glanced at the name on her schedule. Lord Cataclysm. Again.

She pressed the intercom. “Send him in, please.”

The door burst open, and in swept a tall, ominous figure draped in flowing black robes, his metallic gauntlets gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Behind his elaborate mask, two glowing red eyes burned with intensity.

“I DESIRE TO SPEAK,” he boomed, sweeping dramatically into the chair opposite her.

Caroline nodded and clicked her pen. “Go ahead, Cataclysm. What’s on your mind?”

“I AM WEARY.”

She made a note. “Weary how?”

“I AM TIRED OF BEING MISUNDERSTOOD,” he growled. “TIRED OF MY INFERNAL MINIONS FAILING ME. TIRED OF NARROW ESCAPES. TIRED OF—” He gestured vaguely. “BEING THWARTED IN MY PLANS AT THE LAST SECOND.”

Caroline adjusted her glasses. “You’ve been threatening to destroy the world for fifteen years. That sounds exhausting. Have you considered taking a break?”

Lord Cataclysm scoffed. “A BREAK? FROM VENGEANCE?” He slammed a fist onto the armrest. “THEY MOCKED ME. THE SCIENTISTS AT THE LABS CALLED MY THEORIES MADNESS. I CANNOT REST UNTIL THEY—” He stopped, inhaled sharply. “But… lately, even annihilation feels tedious.”

She tapped her notepad. “Have you felt this way before?”

He shifted in his seat. “ONCE. In my early days, when my first Doomsday Device failed to launch. It was… disheartening.”

She nodded. “And what did you do then?”

“I… BUILT ANOTHER ONE,” he admitted. “And another. AND THEN A WEATHER DOMINATOR. THEN A GIANT LASER. THEN A—” He paused slightly. “Are you suggesting I am coping through destruction?”

Caroline gave him a look.

“…THIS IS RIDICULOUS,” he exclaimed.

She smiled. “Tell me about the other scientists at the labs. Did you make any friends?”

His red eyes flared. “THEY SAID MY WORK LACKED RIGOUR. THAT I WAS—” He made air quotes with his gauntlets. “—’A DANGER TO SOCIETY’ AND ‘A HOMICIDAL MANIAC’. CAN YOU BELIEVE THE AUDACITY?”

She leaned forward. “And when you built your first death ray, did you feel validated?”

He hesitated. “…NOT REALLY. I WAS HOPING FOR MORE SCREAMING.”

“Mmhmm.”

Lord Cataclysm sank back into the chair. “THIS… THIS WHOLE THING. THE EVIL. THE MONOLOGUES. THE ESCAPES.” He gestured tiredly. “IT’S GETTING OLD.”

Caroline tapped her chin. “Maybe you’re outgrowing it.”

“OUTGROWING VENGEANCE?” He let out a bitter laugh. “WHO EVEN a.m. I WITHOUT IT?”

She flipped back a few pages in her notes. “Last session, you mentioned wanting to try painting.”

He stiffened. “THAT WAS… A FLEETING THOUGHT.”

She pulled out her phone. “You emailed me a picture of your first canvas, remember?” She turned the screen towards him. It displayed a dramatic, apocalyptic sunset over a smouldering cityscape.

Lord Cataclysm stared. “…YES, WELL. I HAVE A VISION.”

She smiled. “Maybe you don’t need to rule the world, Cataclysm. Maybe you just need to paint it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “DO YOU THINK THEY SELL ACRYLICS IN BULK?”

She nodded. “I can send you a few recommendations.”

Lord Cataclysm rose from the chair, his dark cape swirling. “THANK YOU, DOCTOR.” He turned dramatically towards the door, then paused. “NEXT WEEK—SAME TIME?”

She jotted it down. “I’ll see you then.”

He swept out of the room.

Caroline sighed and stretched. A moment later, her intercom buzzed.

“Doctor Carter, your next appointment is here.”

She glanced at the schedule. Doctor Carnage. A known mad scientist with an unhealthy attachment to giant robot sharks.

She clicked her pen and smiled. “Send him in.”

The Room That Eats People

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Jason, the new guy, was the first to notice.

“Hey,” he said, sipping bad coffee in the breakroom. “Has anyone seen Karen from accounting?”

Silence. A few shrugs.

“She went for paperclips last week,” someone muttered.

Jason frowned. “And Steve?”

“He was getting staples.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Does anyone ever come back from the supply closet?”

More silence. A cough. Everyone suddenly found their phones very interesting.

Fuelled by equal parts curiosity and crippling workplace boredom, Jason devised a plan.

He folded a paper airplane, scrawled IF YOU’RE ALIVE, SEND BACK on the wings, and launched it into the supply closet. It vanished into the gloom.

Nothing came back.

Jason upgraded his tactics. He tied a company lanyard to a stress ball and tossed it in. Tugged the string. Felt resistance. Tugged harder. The lanyard snapped.

The room had eaten the ball.

At this point, Jason could have reported it. But honestly? He was two weeks from quitting anyway.

So, when his boss, Greg, barked at him for missing deadlines, Jason did the only logical thing.

“Hey Greg,” he said, forcing a fake smile. “We’re out of printer toner. I can’t print those urgent balance sheet reports.”

Greg grumbled, rolled his eyes, and stormed towards the supply closet.

Jason waited.

Silence.

A burp?

The closet door shut itself with an oddly satisfied click.

By the end of the week, office morale was at an all-time high. Productivity skyrocketed. No more “urgent” Friday emails. No more passive-aggressive post-it notes about fridge etiquette.

The supply closet door stood slightly ajar, content. Full.

For now.

Jason leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee, contentedly.

Then a single paper airplane fluttered out of the closet.

It had one new word written on it:

“HUNGRY”.

Jason sighed.

“Janice, please could you do me a favour and grab some staples?”

Borrowed Wings

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

On the night of her twelfth birthday, Mira locked her bedroom door, took a deep breath, and waited.

The tingling started in her shoulder blades first, a sensation like static electricity beneath her skin. Then came the stretching, the unbearable itching, the pulling—until, with a flutter of feathers, her wings unfolded in the moonlight.

They were delicate, almost translucent, veined with silver like frost on a windowpane. She ran her fingers along the feathers, just as she had on every birthday before this one, marvelling at them. She had never dared to use them.

But tonight was different. Tonight, she was done waiting.

She pressed her palms against the windowsill and hoisted herself up. The village was quiet, roofs bathed in silver, the lake beyond glistening like liquid glass.

She stepped off the ledge.

For a moment, she fell—panic surging through her—before instinct took over. Her wings caught the wind, lifting her, carrying her higher, higher, until the village became a scattering of candlelit windows.

Mira soared.

She dipped low over the rooftops, skimmed her fingers through the treetops, let the night air rush against her skin. She laughed, wild and breathless, tasting freedom in the wind.

But she really shouldn’t be here, she thought. Suddenly, there was a sharp tug between her shoulders. Her wings trembled—her body seemed heavier. She gasped, trying to keep herself aloft.

She spiralled downwards.

The lake rushed towards her. But just as she braced for impact, something—someone—caught her.

She landed not in water, but in warm, steady arms.

A boy, no older than she was, held her effortlessly, hovering in the air. His wings, large and dark, glistened in the moonlight.

“You shouldn’t have done that so soon,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice.

“They’re not mine, are they?”

He shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean you can’t borrow them.”

“What do you mean?”

The boy smiled, lifting her higher, back into the open sky. “You are meant to have them only on special days.”

His grip loosened, but this time, Mira didn’t fall.

The wind lifted her, cradled her, as if recognising her now. Her wings, although borrowed, felt lighter, stronger—hers. Truly hers, for now.

She stretched her arms, tilted into the breeze, and soared.

Below, the lake rippled in silver patterns. Above, the stars shone brighter than ever. And beside her, the boy flew.

“Come on,” he said. “Race you to the clouds.”

Mira grinned—and flew faster.

Unfinished

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

The last batch of artificial skin had been printed at the lab, the machines sterilised, the lights dimmed. The biofabrication unit—Model Z-9, the pride of Genetico Labs—was in sleep mode, its nutrient reservoirs refilled, its synthetic gel cooling under its protective casing.

But as Nathan reached the lift, a soft whirr stopped him.

He turned back. The printer was running.

A mistake, surely. A delayed command in the system queue, a leftover job from the day. He sighed, walked back to his terminal, and tapped at the screen.

No active print job. No queued processes. The machine wasn’t supposed to be running.

And yet, inside the sealed chamber, the print head moved, extruding a fine stream of bio-ink. Layer by layer, a shape began to form. It wasn’t an organ. Not tissue grafts, nor synthetic muscle.

Nathan squinted at the structure. It was… smooth. Rounded.

He checked the material logs. The machine wasn’t using the standard polymer scaffold. It had switched—by itself—to human-grade collagen. The finest tissue-printing substrate available. The kind used to make replacement hearts and livers.

The shape was taking form now. A curve. A ridge. And then—

A nose.

He pressed the emergency halt button. The printer ignored him.

Instead, it picked up speed, layering tissue faster than should have been possible; the texture smoothed, pores appearing, the faintest lines of natural wrinkles. Then the next piece took shape—a cheek. A mouth. The suggestion of an eye socket.

Nathan scrambled to shut off the power manually. He ripped open the side panel, reached for the main switch—

“Don’t.”

Nathan froze.

The voice hadn’t come from the intercom. It hadn’t come from the lab’s speakers.

It had come from inside the printer.

The printed face was almost complete now—beneath faint traces of microvasculature, fine nerve endings still forming, the lips trembled, as if struggling to find the right shape.

An eye socket began to fill.

A glossy layer of bio-gel formed over it. And from that gel, something moved.

Nathan watched, transfixed, as the eyeball printed itself in real-time. Blood vessels threaded into place like ivy, the iris shading in pale increments. The lens formed last, clear and bright.

Then it blinked.

And it looked at him.

The face was… familiar.

It was his face.

Not a perfect replica—something was off. The skin was too smooth, the expression wrong. And the mouth—his mouth—curved into a shape Nathan had never made.

The voice came again, softer now.

“More.”

The printer whirred faster.

Below the face, a throat began to form. The hint of shoulders.

Nathan reached and flicked the switch.

Then—

The intercom crackled.

“You left me unfinished.”

Nathan ran to the lift.

The doors dinged.

He rushed inside, hammering the close button. The last thing he saw, before the doors slid shut, was the printer chamber’s glass bulging outward—distorting, warping—

And his own face, pressed against it, smiling at him from the other side.