COMING SOON

• QUITE CONTRARY: BETA

• THE TRILOGY

NOTE

Want access to a third free story?You can unlock it by reading my free short story, The Last Target Run, subscribing to my newsletter (no spam—pinky promise), which allows you to download The Skin We Shed. Each story holds a piece of the puzzle you’ll need.But I get it—not everyone wants to jump through hoops, or maybe you’ve already cracked the code and just want to support me.Either way, Truth as Bitter as Silk is available for purchase on Gumroad ($2). Same story, same experience—the only difference is that buying it directly supports me as a writer. Think of it as a tip jar with extra words.And in case you’re wondering—The Last Target Run is free on Gumroad, just like it is here.However, The Skin We Shed is a newsletter exclusive—free when you sign up. But if you’d rather skip the subscription, you can also purchase it on Gumroad.No pressure, no obligation—just another way to support indie storytelling.You can find everything by clicking the ‘SHOP’ button at the top of my homepage or by clicking here.Thanks for reading, for sharing, and for supporting independent fiction. You make this possible.

A Story In Three Echoes

Some stories stand alone.
Others cast shadows across time.Each book in this trilogy unfolds on its own—separate lives, separate struggles, separate fates.A dreamer chasing the echoes of a vanished past.A fool grasping at the edges of freedom.A loner lost in a world that changes as rapidly as they do.Different journeys. Different choices.And yet, beneath the surface, a thread runs between them—thin as breath, strong as fate.A deal made.A debt owed.A cost unseen.Perhaps it’s just coincidence. A twist of fate. A shared motif.Or perhaps, it’s something more.These stories exist in their own spaces—untethered, yet bound.By the time the last page turns, by the time the final choice is made, the pattern will be clear.But patterns do not begin. And they do not end.They only continue—shifting, repeating, unraveling.Nothing exists in isolation.No deal is ever truly forgotten.This is not just a story.It is a convergence.

On Timing & The Reality of Writing

- Jonas

- Jonas

ISO: RED HAT

“Listen, if the moon wasn’t supposed to eat, why does it have a mouth?”They already regretted saying it.Their viewership had just spiked.200K.248K.312K.The chat was moving too fast to keep up—some losing their minds, some swearing it was CGI, others demanding to know what drugs they were on.If they could push it higher—maybe 350K, maybe 400K—they might actually cover rent this month. Maybe even get a few real meals instead of rations. But that also meant they were about to be buried under the worst replies imaginable.They could hear them forming in real-time. Someone would argue the moon didn’t have a mouth. Someone else would ask for proof. Some insufferable contrarian would insist that even if it did, that didn’t mean it was supposed to eat.They looked up.The sun hung high, burning white-hot. The moon sat lower on the horizon, pale and looming, too large, too present. You could see them both at the same time today.And there it was.The mouth.A perfect, unmistakable seam carved across the lunar surface—not a crack, not a crater, but something deliberate.Something ancient.Something wrong.There was no face.No eyes, no nose, no expression to soften the horror of it.Only a mouth.A wide, unmoving smile, stretched impossibly across the lunar surface.
And the teeth—eerily white, sharp against the moon’s ashen glow.Visible even from here.As if it had been holding something in its jaws for millennia.They exhaled through their nose.
Instinctively, a hand drifted to their forehead, rubbing their embed—feeling its smoothness, its ridges, its coolness—a nervous habit they’d thought they’d outgrown.They couldn’t deal with this today.And then—their device buzzed.One message.And everything changed.They weren’t sure if they believed it.Could be spam. Probably was.Still, something spoke to them.Need?They needed a red hat.They weren’t sure why, but when the
message appeared that morning mid-stream, they knew they had 72 hours to find one.The sender was encrypted—anonymous.The wording, simple.But something about it lodged deep in their gut, a knot of instinct and unease.Better safe than sorry.So, they set an alarm. 72 hours.Just in case.Then, they made the post:

@Patient-To-A-Fault

ISO: RED HAT

Color: Red.
Style: Any.
Urgency: Immediate.I have to trade:1–unopened pack of batteries
2–cans of peaches
1–solar-powered lantern
1–vial of NovocaineSERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY.They sent the post into the void and hoped for the best.

DAY ONE

The first messages came._{@MikeByAccident: I’ve got a blue one! Interested?}“No.”_{@TonysNailsandSnails: No red hats, but I have a lovely green one! I’ll even throw in a couple snails.}“No.”_{@TrendyCapz: I have a burgundy hat!}“…That’s not red.”_{@DefinitelyNotASpy: What’s with the fixation on red? I have an orange one. Pretty close, right?}“It’s not.”_{@JustTina: I don’t have a hat, but have you considered a scarf?}“Fuck you Tina.”_{@MeatPrisonEscapee: Red is overrated. Navy is way classier!}They took a deep breath.It was fine.They should’ve expected as much.People were stupid, but surely, eventually, someone would come through.Right?

DAY TWO

The next day came.The messages kept coming._{@BarterBob: I have a red hat! But I only want to trade for fresh eggs.}“I don’t have eggs.”_{@DyeJobsByJayJay: I can dye a white hat for you. Won’t be pure red—more like pink— but it’ll be close.@ZedTrader: I have a red hat, but you have to trade me three batteries, a flashlight, and a full bag of rice.}They did not list a flashlight or a bag of rice in their trade post._{@HillAndSons: I can give you a red hat in exchange for a propane tank.@Backup123456: I have a red hat, but I only want to trade for medical supplies.}“I literally listed Novocaine.”_{@Backup123456: Oh, I meant holistic ones. Not that garbage big pharma pushed.}They physically closed their eyes for a moment and took a breath._{@MaxCaps: What about a visor?@ToriTrades: Beanies are better!@HatCollector22: Why don’t you just take any hat and pretend it’s red?}They wanted to scream.They updated the post:

@Patient-To-A-Fault

ISO: RED HAT

Still looking for a RED HAT.
Not burgundy. Not blue. Not a scarf.
MUST BE RED.
MUST ACCEPT MY TRADE.SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY.They sent the post into the void and hoped for the best.

Minutes passed.A new message popped up._{@RichKatuzic: I have some red hats.}Finally.Great. And you’re okay with what I have to offer?A pause.Then, a reply:_{@RichKatuzic: No.}They blinked.Another message came through._{@RichKatuzic: I just wanted to let you know that I had them.}Their skin heated, pulse building gradually.Their fingers hovered over the screen, trying to process the sheer uselessness of this interaction.There was something about the internet—about people—that made it feel like some of them existed purely to be insufferable. Like they saw a post, knew they had nothing of value to add, and still decided to inject themselves into it. Did they do it for attention? For control? Did they think they were being funny? Or was this just who they really were, deep down—without the restraints of physical consequence or social obligation?Was the internet where people revealed their truest selves?Or was it just a symptom of the environment itself, an endless loop of learned behaviors and decayed empathy?Their device buzzed again._{@RichKatuzic sent an image.}They tapped the notification, half-expecting another pointless joke.But it wasn’t.It was a picture. Stacks of red hats, piled high, more than they’d seen in one place in their entire life. But they barely noticed the hats.Their attention locked onto the background.It was subtle, easy to miss—but that skyline. The spires, the way the light caught on the buildings, the unmistakable sharp, unnatural symmetry of the architecture.Védrith.The city that didn’t exist.The one people whispered about but never saw.They swallowed hard, already reaching to save the image.Proof.Before they could tap the screen—The picture vanished.A new notification appeared.You’ve been blocked by @RichKatuzic.Gone.The profile. The messages. The evidence.Like they had never existed at all.

NIGHT TWO

Hours passed — hours of offers that weren’t right.Then, a new message._{@JaxNeedz: I have a red hat. Meet tonight. What do you have?}‘Batteries, peaches, solar lantern, Novocaine.’A pause. Then:_{@JaxNeedz: U still got the novacane?}‘Yeah.’_{@JaxNeedz: how much?}‘One vial.’_{@JaxNeedz: ever used it?}The hairs on the back of their neck stood up.‘No.’_{@JaxNeedz: r u sure?}They stared at the message._{@JaxNeedz: meet me on 125th & halton.@JaxNeedz: alley behind the laundromat.}They didn’t reply.A few minutes later, another message._{@JaxNeedz: yo?@JaxNeedz: cmon. i got ur hat. just a quick trade. ez.@JaxNeedz: u need it, right?}A pause. Then:_{@JaxNeedz: katuzic’s like u always do this shit.@JaxNeedz: act intrested, then flake. shudda known.@JaxNeedz: u a katuzic, aint u? gotta be. either that or a sench. same fuckin thing. katuzic’s like u always wastin my time.@JaxNeedz: u think ur better than me?@JaxNeedz: u think u can just ignore me?}Another pause. Then:_{@JaxNeedz: varlen kord was right bout u.@JaxNeedz: right bout all u relipucards. useless. selfish. u ruined everythin. n now u wanna act like it never happened? like u didnt hollow us out? like u didnt make us claw our way back?@JaxNeedz: u why we sufferd. u why we bled. u why everythin had to be rebuilt. why everthin is so fucked.@JaxNeedz: and ur still here. still makin it worse.@JaxNeedz: but das okay. bc ur time is almost up.@JaxNeedz: go on. walk round thinkin ur fuckin safe.}They blocked the account.

DAY THREE

Dawn broke on a new day.The third day.Three days of absolute nonsense.They weren’t even sure why they needed the red hat anymore. That urgency that had burned so brightly on the first day was now a dull, tired ache.Exhausted, defeated, they scrolled back through their messages.They found the seller from Day One._{@TrendyCapz: I have a burgundy hat!}They stared at the words for a long time.Then, they typed:Still available?The response came fast._{@TrendyCapz: Meet at the trade market district in two hours. Base of the central statue.}They responded:I’ll be there—my embed is a yellow gem on my forehead. Can’t miss me._{@TrendyCapz: A Gemma, nice, I’m a Lignum — on my navel. SYS}And then, they threw on their garbment—that shifting piece of clothing that everyone wore.A ripple ran through the fabric as it adjusted to their configuration: a fitted tunic, loose at the sleeves, paired with tapered pants that cinched neatly at the ankles. Functional. Unremarkable.They tugged at the hem, glancing at their reflection in the glass panel by the door. As always, something about it felt unfinished. But that was the trade-off.Garbments could become almost anything—shirts, coats, dresses, even shoes if you were willing to deal with the occasional glitch. But they couldn’t be accessories.No hats.No jewelry.No scarves or gloves or visors.The reasoning had been absurd. Some long-forgotten contract between the retailers of old and the corporations that developed the technology. If clothing could shift freely into any form, what would happen to fashion houses? To branding? To the economy of self-expression?So, they had drawn a line.
Garbments could transform, but only into garments. Accessories, however? Those still had to be bought.Or at least—they used to.Before everything went to shit.Before the collapse of commercialism. Before the markets lost their grip and the slow, inevitable slide into bartering and trade overtook the old ways.The brands still existed, technically. The fashion houses. The luxury ateliers that had once dictated what was in, what was out, what was worth coveting. But their reach had shrunk, their influence reduced to whispers among the ultra-wealthy—the ones who still had access to things like true silk, genuine leather, hand-forged metals.The ones who lived in Védrith.A city spoken of in a way that blurred the line between rumor and myth. Towering spires. Streets paved with polished obsidian. A place where the elite supposedly wore gold-threaded suits and diamond-woven cloaks, untouched by the desperation of the outside world.A place they would never see.With a sigh, they set their garbment, grabbed their trade items, threw them in a tote bag, and headed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived.The trade market was a contradiction.Hanging lanterns, powered by solar cells, illuminated streets lined with towering stone archways that belonged to another century.
Beneath them, vendors displayed wares on humming neon panels.
Overhead, a mechanical watchtower ticked, brass gears turning, always watching.And everywhere—the embeds.Some gleamed like crystalline jewels, embedded in foreheads, throats, wrists. Others bore etched metal sigils, inscriptions glinting as their wearers moved. A few were organic—bone-like ridges, sculpted faces emerging from collarbones, spiked wooden protrusions along spines like natural armor.Theirs was a yellow jewel, dead-center on the forehead.They passed a woman whose embed pulsed, shifting onyx black to deep green as she bartered over fiber.A man with a serpentine metal coil wrapped around his neck glanced their way—just a flicker, but enough to send unease crawling down their spine.They knew better than to react. But the instinct was there, deep-rooted.They thought of their parents’ warnings about trusting a Metallicus—“Ferrums,” as they called them.The word sat ugly in their mind.
Always the first one that came.They swallowed their disgust, forced a polite, empty smile.He hadn’t done anything.They knew that.But still—Still, they just couldn’t understand.Still, they kept moving.The Central Statue loomed.A massive, open palm, fingers reaching skyward as if grasping for something long gone.No one knew where it came from.The city had been built around it, and even with modern dating tech, researchers could only confirm:It was millions of years old.Older than the streets, the ruins beneath the streets—older than humanity itself.Theories were endless.A monument from a lost empire. A warning from something ancient. A forgotten god, turned to stone, mid-reach, still waiting for salvation.Or maybe—it had simply always been there.They scanned the market, threading through the throngs of people, gaze drawn to the stone hand towering over the district.And there, standing in its shadow:@TrendyCapz.They recognized him, not just by the way his eyes searched the crowd, but by his embed—a wooden protrusion jutting from his navel, dark and knotted like an ancient root.A tote bag hung off one shoulder, the strap digging into his collarbone as he adjusted it absently, his fingers curling around the edge.His garbment was configured into a black crop top and white form-fitting biker shorts, leaving nothing to the imagination. The fabric clung to his body, shifting with each movement, outlining every ridge of muscle, every contour—including the unmistakable bulge between his legs.No one batted an eye.Why would they?It was quite a modest outfit.All around, garbments shifted and reconfigured, molding to each wearer’s function—or lack thereof.Some wore architectural drapery, fabric suspended in impossible structures, sculpted as if by unseen forces.Others embraced excess, their garbments forming cascading layers that dragged behind them like liquid silk, pooling across the market’s stone pathways.And then there were those who wore almost nothing at all.A woman passed, her garbment reduced to the barest technicality—thin, translucent bands draped strategically across her chest and hips, leaving her bare save for the illusion of fabric. The strands shimmered faintly with her movement, designed not to obscure but to highlight.Her embed, an opalescent protrusion at her throat, pulsed faintly with each breath.At first glance, she was unremarkable. The sheerness of her garbment barely registered—hardly the boldest choice in a sea of excess. But as they moved past, something caught their eye.Her nipples were large. Too large.The proportions were off—the texture too ridged.And then, it clicked.Not nipples.Rectums.Not connected to the digestive system, of course—just modified esophageal tunnels, seamlessly linked to the throat, allowing for direct ingestion. A functional upgrade, still wired to the milk ducts, still capable of lactation—just through a larger, more efficient opening.It wasn’t uncommon.Plenty of people had them—Milk Buttons, as they were casually called. A standard mod, same as any other.Some got them for aesthetics.Others for—practicality.Most paired them with FlowMax, a complementary procedure that vastly increased milk production. Women could lactate whether pregnant or not. Men, too, if they wanted. Some did. Enough for it to be a viable market.Multi-functionality. Just like mouth joints, secondary eyelids, liquid organs.Hers were high-end. No scarring, no signs of rejection—seamless integration.She had paid well for them.Their gaze drifted upward.And then—him.Beside her, a man, nearly nude, strutted forward with absolute confidence. His garbment was no more than a decorative pouch slung between his legs, barely containing what it was designed to. The straps at his hips vanished between toned thighs, accentuating the sculpted frame of his body.But that wasn’t what drew the eye.It was what the pouch didn’t contain.The surgery had become popular in certain circles—men opting for trigenital enhancement, boasting tri-phallic symmetry as a marker of status, virility, or sheer aesthetic experimentation. His central member rested snug in the fabric, but the other two hung naturally along either thigh, swaying with each step, as unremarked upon as a pair of idle hands.And he wasn’t the only one.Another man browsed a vendor’s wares, wearing nothing but a garbment configured into a single silvery sash diagonally across his chest, leaving the rest of his body bare. His enhancement was more pronounced—three massive symmetrically arranged members, all positioned forward, each one tattooed with intricate silver etchings that caught the light.A few feet away, an older man adjusted the drape of his garbment, his body showing the surgical trends of a previous generation. His hands, oversized and thick-knuckled, bore the hallmark of the Titan Grip modification—once prized among manual laborers and combatants before automation rendered the feature obsolete. His fingers twitched absentmindedly, tendons shifting beneath skin that no longer had a true purpose.And then—her.The blonde woman.Her skin segmentation was seamless—her head porcelain, her neck a sun-warmed tan, her near-bare torso bronzed, and from the waist down? A deep, deliberate brown.She didn’t walk so much as glide, each step slow, deliberate. Not out of grace, but necessity.Her feet were enormous.Obscene. Swollen. Bulbous. Each step an exaggerated roll of flesh, pressing deep into the pavement before shifting forward.Fat redistribution—foot inflation, as it was once called—had started as a niche modification, then exploded into a market. A very particular market. The kind that paid well.Very well.The moment they saw her, they knew—she was rich.Not Védrith-rich, but rich enough that rent was an abstraction. Rich enough that she had never stared at an empty pantry or rationed out calories. Rich enough to be chosen.No one got work like that done without a steady clientele—and only the wealthiest could afford the upkeep. The custom garbments designed to cradle each step, the skin treatments to keep the fat from settling awkwardly, the sculpting procedures that turned excess into luxury.It wasn’t beauty. It wasn’t stability. It wasn’t about function.It was appeal.The kind that catered to people—men—with specific tastes. The kind who paid fortunes for those who could meet them.Her embed, nestled at her clavicle, gleamed platinum.The mark of someone who had never struggled for anything.Further ahead, someone strode by in gleaming metallic armor—covering only their legs, leaving chest, stomach, and arms bare. A series of small, flexing tendrils protruded from their shoulders, occasionally twitching in response to sound.Another’s garbment flickered chaotically, never settling, as if even the wearer couldn’t decide what they wanted to be—one second a full-body cloak, the next an asymmetrical sash, then a pair of knee-high boots before flickering back to nothing at all.Some outfits were hyper-functional, others so absurdly unrestrained they seemed crafted only to defy logic.And yet, no one looked twice.Why would they?This was normal.@TrendyCapz, in his crop top and form-fitting biker shorts, was normal.The towering half-nude men with their augmented anatomy were normal.The woman with her segmented skin, her grotesquely swollen feet, her gleaming platinum embed—
normal.The Milk Buttons, the FlowMax mods, the mouth joints, the ever-morphing garbments sculpted into impossible shapes—normal.Everything was normal now.Nothing was strange.And still—something about the day felt wrong.A current beneath the surface, a discordant note in a song that had been looping in the shadowed corners of their mind, too quiet to notice until now.@TrendyCapz saw them approaching and tapped his wrist—his sub-device.A habit. Or something else.“Didn’t think you’d show,” he said, pulling the burgundy hat from a satchel. His smirk deepened, amused. “Regrets?”They shrugged, too tired to answer.They reached in their tote bag.The trade was made. Batteries, peaches, lantern, Novocaine. The goods exchanged hands, and the burgundy hat was pulled onto their head.@TrendyCapz didn’t move right away. Instead, he adjusted the tote bag slung over his shoulder, fingers slipping inside.For a moment, he fished around.
Then—he pulled something out.A hat.Not burgundy.Not close.Red.He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it with mild interest, then, with the same ease as someone tossing on a pair of sunglasses, he slid it onto his head.“Honestly,” he said, adjusting the brim, “you probably should’ve held out for red.”They stared at him. Confusion flickered across their face.He shrugged. “I only had one.”Then—he checked his device again.And looked up at the sky.A shrill, piercing beep-beep-beep.
That timer they had set 72 hours ago.It went off.They pulled out their device. The notification glowed on the screen:“Time’s up.”Then—other alarms began to sound.Not just theirs. Everywhere. Devices buzzing, sub-devices vibrating, clocks blaring from shop stalls.They looked up. And froze.Scattered throughout the crowded streets, people were pulling red hats from their bags. Some adjusting them onto their heads, others smoothing the brims, a few glancing around with that same “oh shit” look dawning on their faces.That message was real.And then—the sky split.A beam of white light tore through the clouds, bleaching the city in unnatural daylight.And then—the screaming started.Shadows disintegrated.Ghostly heat outlines lingered for half a second before vanishing.The air boiled. Streets emptied.
People ran, and screamed, and clawed at the ground, trying to outrun inevitability.The woman with grotesquely swollen feet lurched forward, her steps rolling and sluggish. She barely made it five feet before the beam took her.Another with the same modification fared better—leaping onto a market stall, padded soles absorbing the impact. She balanced, scanning for an escape.There was none.The next beam struck.The man with triple genitals clutched his pouch as he sprinted, the other two slapping against his thighs, slowing him just enough to seal his fate. He collapsed mid-stride, mouth open in a silent scream before vanishing.The other man with massive hands scrambled up a building, fingers digging in with ease—an advantage, until his own strength betrayed him. The bricks crumbled. He tumbled backward, crushing someone beneath him.The light took them both.The woman with Milk Buttons stood frozen for a second.Then she ran.Her breath came fast, her chest heaving—not just through her throat, but through the twin ridges rising and falling in sync with each desperate inhale. The esophageal tunnels in her breasts expanded, contracting rhythmically, gulping air as she sprinted. Each jolt sent them bouncing, wobbling—too much movement, too much drag.Her garbment adjusted.The thin, translucent bands tightened, shifting into a firm, high-compression hold—sealing everything down except for two precise openings, allowing her modified nipples to remain free, exposed, breathing.She pushed harder. Faster.Her Milk Buttons gasped.And then—The beam found her.For half a second, her milk buttons flared—one final, reflexive inhale.Then she was gone.A woman with grotesquely long fingers latched onto a pillar, her hyperextended grip locking around stone. For a moment, it looked like she might hold.Then the beam found her.Her fingers severed first—clean, painless—before the rest followed.They all ran. They all fought. They all tried.The light didn’t care.A Grasper skittered through the chaos.Their head sat where a human’s should, eyes darting, calculating—but where a torso belonged, there was only a massive hand.Their neck fused seamlessly into the wrist, veins threading into thick ligaments.Their legs—the middle and ring fingers—splayed and flexed, gripping the ground with unnatural dexterity.Their arms—the index and pinky fingers—curled and unfurled, steadying their movement.And the thumb—long, unnervingly prehensile—flicked behind them, an eerie counterbalance.They ran on all five fingertips, moving in an unsettling, insectile rhythm. Pentipedal gait. A motion too fluid, too efficient, too alien. Each step was a precise tap of five digits, weight shifting seamlessly, launching them forward in rapid, elastic bursts.For a moment, it looked like they might make it.They twisted, vaulted, pushed off a crumbling cart with a powerful flick of their digit-limbs, clearing multiple disintegrating bodies before landing in a crouch. Another bound—fingers gripping, launching off an exposed beam, moving like they were built for this.But there was no escape.The beam found them mid-leap.The Grasper reached out—not in panic, not in desperation, but in instinct. The massive hand flexed, fingers stretching for the ground, as if to catch themselves.But the fall never came.They unraveled before they hit the earth.A woman tangled in silk tripped, the fabric wrapping her like a shroud.A half-naked man in a thong and horned helmet turned to pray—his mouth open in silent desperation—before he ceased.Someone’s clothes flickered, caught between fight and flight, shifting in a panic—until they were gone.Another ran barefoot, their garment morphing mid-stride, trying to form armor, protection—anything. But garments weren’t armor. There was no protection against this.@PatientToAFault wasn’t alone.Hundreds. Thousands.For every one person who had gotten the message, three, four, five others hadn’t.They weren’t the only ones who had failed.But that knowledge brought no comfort.Because they would never know why.Never know who had chosen them.Never know if they could have changed their fate.All they knew—They had been given a chance to live.And they had let it slip through their fingers.A woman clutched at her bony embed, screaming for an answer.A child wailed, arms outstretched to a parent who had already vanished.A man, wrapped in entirely unnecessary plated armor, stood defiant—until the beam reduced him to nothing.Everywhere, people collapsed, begged, fought, surrendered.Everywhere, they died.And yet—The ones in red hats remained untouched.Standing still. Breathless. Watching. Knowing.@PatientToAFault saw it.They saw the truth—And they understood.It had been so simple.They had known. From the moment they got the message, they had known.But they had let exhaustion win. Let the constant, senseless noise dull the edges of instinct. Let the weight of existence grind their urgency into complacency.They had ignored the fire in their gut because everyone around them had worn them down into thinking close enough was good enough.It hadn’t been good enough.It had never been good enough.And now—

Now, they wouldn’t get another chance.A final glimpse—Of the absurd, the arbitrary, the towering construct of it all.They had lost because they lacked.Because wealth was a shield, a buffer, a language of safety they had never been taught. Because the rules had never applied to the ones who owned the board.Would the beams touch them—the ones in Védrith? The ones who draped themselves in diamond-threaded cloaks, who lived in places where the air was filtered and the water ran clean? Would the sky crack open for them, or did they sit high above, watching as the lesser world burned?Would they grieve?Would they care?Would they be wearing red?The thought burned, sharp-edged and bitter.They had spent years drowning in absurdity, watching meaning erode, watching strangeness become normal, and normal lose all meaning.Watching the machine churn, its gears grinding up lives and spitting out new rules, new expectations, new distractions.They had laughed at it. Mocked it.
Played along.And what had that gotten them?A burgundy hat.A miscalculation.A fundamental misunderstanding of what had always mattered.Would they have cared, if they had been rich? If they had sat in Védrith, untouched, watching this unfold like entertainment?Would they have dismissed it?
Called it tragic but inevitable? Said something meaningless, something detached, something like— It is what it is?Would they have been disgusted by the person they had been?Would they have been right?They would never know.Because this was it.The last mistake.The last lesson.The last thoughts.A final glimpse—The bright, unmistakable red of
@TrendyCapz’s hat—of all the hats.And just beyond him—That man.That metallicus.The one they had moved away from.The one they had distrusted for no real reason.The one their parents had warned them about.Wearing a red hat.Their stomach twisted.Because whatever criteria had mattered, whatever rules had determined who got to live and who didn’t—They had both met it.The differences they thought mattered?Didn’t.And they would never know what did.The Metallicus stood there, silent at first, his head capped in red, the metal embed coiled round his throat glowing faintly.Then—his shoulders shook.Not mockery. Not cruelty.Just… something else.A sharp breath, then another. A sound escaping from the back of his throat, caught somewhere between a sob and a chuckle.Disbelief. Relief. Raw, visceral survival.He had trusted his gut.He had gotten the message.And now—he was alive.The laughter broke free.Shaking, gasping—laughter spilling into full-bodied, unrestrained hysteria.Because he had lived.And @Patient-To-A-Fault, in their off-colored hat—They were nothing.Less than soon enough.The last thing they felt: the razor-
edged clarity of regret.The last thing they heard: laughter, wild and unbound.The last thing they saw: a beam charging.And then—Before the end.A moment stretched.Longer than time. Longer than thought.A breath caught between existence and erasure.They say a life flashes before your eyes.But it wasn’t a life.Not really.It was the timbre of their mother’s voice, calling them in from the rain.The weight of a hand on their shoulder, long since gone.The scent of roasted fruit and oil-slick streets, childhood bottled in memory.The sharp bite of a first betrayal.The dull ache of a last goodbye.The feeling of having lived.And now—The feeling of being unmade.A final, blinding instant.An unraveling.A truth so sharp, so absolute, so all-consuming—That just before they ceased, before the beam carved its path—
unyielding, inevitable, meant for them and them alone in their stupid, worthless, not-quite-red hat—They looked up.The midday sun burned bright.Yet the moon still hung in the sky.And for the first time in history—its mouth was open.Not smiling. Not still.Open. Wide. Waiting.No one had ever seen it move.Most had never even considered that it could.But now—A hollow chasm, yawning wider and wider, as if the sky itself was folding inward.And in that final moment—Vindication.They had been right.The moon was supposed to eat.And now—It was hungry.Then—Red.Then nothing.Then everything.Only those in red hats remained.But what they were left with?Well.That was for them to know.The sky folded inward.The stars swallowed themselves.And somewhere, far above—The moon chewed.And swallowed.And changed.

And it was normal.And nothing was strange.Not anymore.

Oh.You found this, huh?Did you find the others?If you’ve checked out the Musings section of my page, you already know why I use a pseudonym.But even people with pseudonyms show their faces sometimes, right?So maybe you’re wondering—why the reluctance?Honestly?I’m just too fucking gorgeous.It’s been a problem my whole life. A burden, really.I’m like if a fusion of Kaguya-hime, Cú Chulainn, Dorian Gray, Galatea, and Narcissus had a love child with the most beautiful person you know—and then they accidentally dropped the baby into a vat of highly-radioactive and highly-dangerous sexy.

The problem with beauty is that, often, it doesn’t like to get dirty.It doesn’t like when things get—ugly.When the emergency responders arrived, they hesitated.By the time they pulled the baby out of the vat, its skin was bubbling, blistering, peeling away in stomach-turning folds. One of the blisters grew. And grew. And grew.Until it burst.Inside? A single, impossibly smooth, pearlescent orb.The orb twitched, like a muscle testing itself for the first time. Then, with slow, deliberate intent, it burrowed—disappearing beneath the soil where the baby’s former body was now melting into the earth.From that very spot, moss sprouted.And from that moss, a strange, fleshy lichen.At first, no one noticed. It was just another unremarkable blot of growth in the dirt.But slowly—imperceptibly—it fed.Dust. Air. Water. The tiny, invisible things that pass through a space unnoticed.Then insects.Then small rodents.Then larger animals—cats, dogs, deer, wild boar.And still, the lichen grew.Once they noticed, they set up perimeters. Installed cameras. Took more samples. And although it was bigger than before, it was still harmless—just another curiosity in a world full of strange things.At first, they called it a phenomenon. Then a mystery. Then a threat.By the time the disappearances began, it was an opportunity.Because humans are humans. And while something might be dangerous, if there’s money to be made—who can turn down a dollar?So, of course, they commodified it.Come see the strange, living anomaly!A perimeter was built. The rule was simple: “It won’t grow as long as you don’t feed it.”For a while, it worked.Tourists came by the thousands, snapping photos from behind reinforced glass. Influencers took selfies in front of “The Thing That Shouldn’t Be.” Merch booths sold plushies shaped like its gelatinous, pulsing form.It was the attraction of the decade.Then came the fashion industry.“It’s otherworldly,” they said. “It’s perfect.”And so, they planned a show.Not just any show. The show.Alexander McQueen. Maison Margiela. Mugler. Vivienne Westwood. Iris Van Herpen. Comme des Garçons.The greatest fashion houses of the world. The greatest models to walk a runway.The lichen would be the stage.A circular platform, built around the perimeter—so close, the models’ heels would click against glass just inches from its surface.The industry’s finest came dressed in creations stitched from dreamstuff. Gossamer threads woven from liquid silver. Corsets carved from frozen lightning. Dresses made of sound, of shadow, of things that should never have held shape at all.It was the most ambitious showcase in history.And when things can go wrong, they do.And they did.The lichen had simply been lying in wait.The moment the show began, as the first model strutted the stage, something shifted.Something breathed.The roots emerged.They wrapped around ankles.They yanked them down.They dragged them under.Screams filled the air as bodies disappeared into the pulsing, undulating mass. The lichen swelled. Expanded. Shuddered.And then—Boom.It burst.And from the explosion, in the center of the devastation, there was a small, impossibly beautiful baby.

And that is the story of my birth.So you see, I just don’t want my sheer, devastating beauty distracting you from my work. My words.My art.Imagine if you fell in love with my writing and my face. It would be too much.For you.
For society.
For the fragile balance of the universe.So please, respect my privacy.Not for me. For you.For the greater good of humanity.You’re welcome.

- Jonas

Wow.I’ll admit it—I’m impressed. You actually made it this far.Surely, if you found this page, that means you also stumbled upon the list. And I’m sure you noticed the outlier.The name that doesn’t quite sound like a real name.That’s the password.Copy. Paste. Submit.But fair warning: what’s behind this door isn’t just another side of me—it’s an archive.A secured repository of things I’ve chosen to preserve. Some of it is mine. A lot of it, I’ve gathered over the years—media worth holding onto, things that might not always have a place anywhere else.Not everything on the internet lasts forever, despite what people say.Things disappear. Get buried. Get rewritten. Sites shut down. Content vanishes. What isn’t physically preserved gets scrubbed, lost to time, or forcibly erased.I didn’t want that to happen here. So I didn’t just save these things—I stored them. Kept them separate. Off the grid. Not reliant on the shifting sands of the wider web.This? This is my little act of digital defiance.Some of what’s behind this door is artful. Some of it is not. Some of it is polished, intentional, deliberate.A lot of it? Messy. Raw. Homemade.You don’t have to type in the password.You don’t have to look.But if you do—well. Some things, once seen, can’t be unseen.Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

- Jonas

• SUBMIT

INCORRECT PASSWORD

Okay, SERIOUSLY.Chill out.Didn’t your parents ever teach you to mind your business?This is embarrassing.Did you find the love letter?My list of crushes & confessions?The password protected page with the…Never mind.Fine. Here’s a reward.In Chapter One of Quite Contrary, the protagonist—Wairy—hears a song while lying on an exam table.It’s called ‘Canticle of The Five Kings’This is the melody I created for it.But after this? You’re done.Don’t go hunting for the other hidden links.

- Jonas

How many of these hidden links have you found so far?Surely not all eight.No way.But if you have—well, I suppose I should apologize for that list of links. I couldn’t help myself. It was too well hidden.And hey, we’re all adults here.At least I put a disclaimer. And a password. So whatever you saw, you wanted to see.Since you made it this far, consider this your reward: the beta cover and Part One of the two-part prologue for Quite Contrary.

- Jonas

PROLOGUE
Louisiana, 2005

Electric tension. Expectations—realized, then shattered.The stench of sewage.Moisture. Misery. Memory.The air hung thick after Hurricane Katrina ripped through New Orleans, leaving a fractured wasteland of shattered homes, uprooted trees, and lives buried in mud and grief. The sky hung low and heavy, gray as the weight pressing on the city’s broken heart.Chris Gilbert moved through the devastation with methodical purpose, his sandy blond hair damp with sweat, sharp features set in a mask of calm vigilance. As a Secret Service agent, his world was one of action, vigilance, and unwavering control. He had one job: ensure President George W. Bush’s safety as he toured the wreckage.The president walked ahead, flanked by aides and local officials. Chris’s boots crunched on gravel as his sharp eyes swept the surroundings, his hand instinctively near the firearm at his hip. The world around him felt real. Certain. Until it wasn’t.Everything stopped.The president froze mid-step. Torn scraps of paper hung motionless in midair. Even the wind stilled. Time had fractured, and Chris was the only one left moving.His breath hitched. “What the…” His voice cracked in the unnatural quiet as his hand went to his gun, instinct clashing with rising panic.Then he saw it.A shimmer of light on the horizon, growing impossibly bright. It swelled into a cascade of shifting hues—colors he couldn’t name, then condensed into a form—humanlike but otherworldly.Its body radiated iridescent brilliance, a golden skeleton glowing at its core. Shadows stretched across the ruins, bending in its presence. It hovered above the wreckage, its gaze sweeping the devastation like a cosmic judge.Chris’s breath caught. His fingers wrapped around his gun. “What the fuck are you?”The figure didn’t react.Chris fired.The shot never landed—it never even existed. The gun in his hand vanished, as though it had never been.The being turned. Its golden core flared, and Chris froze in place. A voice rumbled in his mind—a deep, ancient resonance. “I am Arran. This device is for your fourth-born. Ensure he receives it.”Chris’s pulse spiked. His mind snagged on one word: fourth-born. “Fourth-born? I can’t even have one—”The being raised its hand. A point of golden light appeared, expanding into a small, intricately detailed golden fist no larger than a small ball. It pulsed with faint warmth, alive in a way no object should be.Chris hesitated, instincts screaming at him to run. But the object hovered toward him, magnetic in its pull. His hand trembled as he reached out. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, heat surged through him—electric and overwhelming.“What… what am I supposed to do with this?” His voice wavered as he clutched the golden fist, its rhythmic pulse echoing his heartbeat.The being unraveled into threads of light. Its golden core flared brilliantly one last time before vanishing, leaving him alone in the wreckage.Sound rushed back in—gravel crunching, voices murmuring, the hum of Air Force One. The president walked on, unbothered, as though nothing had happened.Chris stood rooted, his fingers brushing against the object in his pocket. Fourth-born. The words echoed relentlessly.He thought of the diagnosis. The finality of it. The years spent burying the dream of fatherhood. And now this—a demand for not just one child, but four. Four who could never exist.His mind raced: What the fuck was that thing? Arran? A god? An alien? Why me?None of it made sense.But the object’s warmth against his thigh carried a certainty he couldn’t shake: his life—and maybe the world—had just shifted in ways he wasn’t ready to face.

Oh wow.Look at you.Behold, the Patron Saint of Proboscides.All hail the Sultan of Schnozz.The Maharaja of Muzzles.The Archduke of Air Passageways.The Supreme Shogun of Snouts.Just nosy as hell.You just had to click, didn’t you?Couldn’t resist. Couldn’t leave well enough alone.Congratulations, you absolute genius, you found the hidden button.And now what?You’ve stumbled into my personal art crypt, a collection of works I definitely didn’t want anyone to see. (Except, clearly, I did. Because I put them here. But don’t think too hard about that. That’s my job, not yours.)So yeah. Enjoy.Or don’t.Now go. Be free.And maybe, just maybe, question why you’re the type of person who clicks mysterious hidden buttons on random websites.And don’t go clicking around looking for more.

- Jonas

Why I Use a Pseudonym

I ask myself this question a lot. Why not just publish under my real name? Why not fully merge myself with my work, attach my face to my books, be more front-facing with my audience?The answer, I think, comes down to control.I have a natural tendency to compartmentalize.
I always have.And while I’d love to trace it back to one definitive moment—some formative experience that turned me into the kind of person who keeps things separate—I can’t. I just know that it’s part of who I am. I like my privacy. I like my quiet life. I like having a space that feels entirely my own, untouched by outside expectations.So when I write, I do so under a name that isn’t quite me, but is still mine.Part of it is probably rooted in something a tad unhealthy.A voice in my head insists that by keeping my personal self and my writer self apart, I can prevent any potential fallout from spilling over. If things go well, if my books find success, I can protect my personal life from the weight of that attention. If things go terribly, I can walk away without dragging my real name through the mud. It’s a defense mechanism, plain and simple.But another part of it?It’s just me.I like the idea of keeping writing as something distinct, something sacred. A world where I get to step into the name I chose, not the one given to me. A space where, if my personal life is chaotic, I can still be Jonas—someone focused, steady, in control of the narrative. A persona that exists purely for the sake of storytelling.That said, I’m not completely opposed to showing up as myself. I know that readers connect with writers as much as they connect with books, and I do want that connection. I want my voice to be heard. I want my work to reach people. And I think—no, I hope—it will.In fact, it’s strange.I’ve never been the most optimistic person, but when it comes to my writing, I feel something close to optimism. I believe in my work. I believe an audience will find it.I believe this will lead somewhere.And maybe, years from now, I’ll look back at this and laugh at how naïve I was. Or maybe I’ll realize I had no idea just how far this would take me. Either way, I’ll be glad I wrote this. Because if nothing else, writing—even these musings—is teaching me more about myself.And that, in turn, is helping me make better art.I think maybe that’s the real lesson here.You can’t grow into a better version of yourself if you don’t recognize the version you are now. You have to do the work—the real, sometimes ugly work—of noticing your patterns, your instincts, the things you do automatically just because that’s how you’ve always done them. You have to watch yourself in real time and think, I was just about to react like this. But what if I didn’t? What if I tried something else?Self-awareness is the first step.Then comes the belief that if you don’t have the skills to change, you can learn them. And if you don’t believe you can learn them, then you start by building the foundations that will allow you to get to that point.Step by step, skill by skill, piece by piece.All that aside, that’s why I use a pseudonym.But more importantly, that’s why I know why I use a pseudonym.Because I’m doing the work. Because I want to live my own life—not on autopilot, not ruled by fear, not dictated by expectations I never had any control over.And yet—because humans are nothing if not walking contradictions—I can’t pretend that fear doesn’t play a role.I don’t want to live a life dictated by fear, but still, part of the pseudonym is rooted in it. The fear of failure, of public scrutiny, of watching my real name get dragged through the mud if this doesn’t go the way I want it to. That fear exists.It’s real.But so is the other part—the optimism.The hope that ‘Jonas’ will become something bigger than I ever could.That the name I chose will outgrow me, carry my words farther than my real self ever could.That one day, I’ll have a platform, a voice that matters, a space where I can share stories that change something for someone.That’s the future I’m planning for.And maybe that’s what I’m really doing here—not just protecting myself from the possibility of failure, but preparing for the possibility of success.

- Jonas

On Sex & Intimacy

Let’s get one thing out of the way upfront: I don’t consider myself a romance writer.That’s not to say my stories won’t contain elements of romance, connection, or intimacy—because, well, those things are part of human life, and I write about human experiences. But if you’re looking for an author who specializes in romance or “romantasy,” I’m not that writer. At least, not right now. I won’t speak in absolutes because I’ve learned that creative interests evolve, and maybe one day I’ll find myself drawn to writing a romance-focused story. But at this moment, that’s not where my focus lies.That being said, because I aim to depict the full range of human emotions and interactions, moments of intimacy—including sex—do sometimes appear in my work. However, how much of it makes it into the final story depends largely on the scope of the project.Where You’ll Find It (and Where You Won’t)In my larger works, where there are a hundred different plot points to develop and explore, sex scenes tend to be the first thing to get cut. Not because I find them unimportant, but because, in the grand scheme of the narrative, they often aren’t the priority. So if you’re reading one of my larger stories, you’re unlikely to find much beyond a chapter or two that delves into those moments.However, in my shorter stories, I find myself more inclined to spend time examining intimacy—not just sex for the sake of sex, but the role physical connection plays in human relationships. Because, at its core, sex and intimacy aren’t just about the physical act; they’re about communication, vulnerability, and the ways people express (or avoid) emotion.The Many Roles of IntimacyIntimacy—whether physical, emotional, or both—has always been a layered and complex part of human relationships. It’s not just about love or passion; it can serve a wide range of purposes depending on the person, the moment, and the circumstances.Sometimes, intimacy is about connection—building trust, fostering closeness, or strengthening a bond between people. Other times, it’s about something entirely different: a means of distraction, a way to relieve tension, or even an act of self-sabotage. Some use it to escape, some use it to reclaim power, and others use it as a way to heal.Throughout history, across different cultures and societies, intimacy has always carried these dualities. While the social rules and legal protections around it have changed over time, the core motivations—the emotional push and pull—have remained the same. It can be an expression of love or a tool for manipulation, a moment of vulnerability or a calculated move.That’s what I find interesting to explore in my writing. Not just intimacy for its own sake, but what it reveals about the people involved—their desires, their wounds, their unspoken truths.For Readers Who Prefer to Skip ItI recognize that not everyone is comfortable reading scenes involving physical intimacy, whether due to personal preference, trauma, or other reasons. If that’s you, that’s completely valid. I respect your choice, and I won’t take it away from you.To make things easier, I’ll do my best to include disclaimers at the beginning of any work that features those kinds of scenes. That way, if you’d rather skip them, you’ll know ahead of time and can still enjoy the story without that content.At the end of the day, my writing isn’t about following a formula or fitting into a particular genre—it’s about exploring human experiences in all their messy, complicated, and sometimes beautiful forms. And sometimes, that includes intimacy.

- Jonas

Jonas writes at the crossroads of speculative fiction and human behavior, crafting stories that blur the line between the real and the surreal. With a background in psychology, his work delves into the complexities of identity, society, and the ever-shifting nature of reality.Drawing from science fiction, fantasy, dystopian futures, and magical realism, Jonas weaves narratives that challenge conventions and linger in the mind long after the final page. His writing isn’t just about telling stories—it’s about reshaping the way we see the world.If you enjoy intricate worlds, impossible choices, and stories that refuse to follow the rules, you’re in the right place!

*If you care to know a little more about my lore, click the logo at the top of the ‘coming soon’ section

BACK COVER BLURB