"By continuing, you agree to the terms. "No refunds. No revisions. "The fine print is written in blood."
Elias - "Option A/ Option B"
The office hummed like a sedated machine. Elias Graves sat beneath soft recessed lighting, bathed in the false warmth of imported walnut paneling and artisanal glass. He wasn't working. Not really. His fingers hovered over the keyboard like they'd already typed something damning and were waiting for it to detonate.
The building was empty. Of course it was. Everyone left hours ago, filed out like good little drones. But Elias liked the silence. It obeyed him. Just like everything else.
He sipped his espresso—lukewarm now—and reread the email on his screen for the fourth time.
Subject: Fwd: Incident Report – June 2018
"Thought you should see this.
-M."
There was nobody in the email. No attachments either. Just the title.
He hadn't opened the original message. He wouldn't. That would mean curiosity, and curiosity implied weakness.
Instead, he closed the email and deleted it. Then emptied the trash.
Twenty floors below, the city was vomiting light. Traffic jammed like veins full of clots, blinking and honking and dying in place. He watched them from the window, one hand adjusting his cufflinks like he was preparing for something more important than watching. Maybe he was.
His reflection was too sharp in the glass. Eyes that looked too alert. Jaw too still. His mother used to say his face was like a blade — always pointed, never warm. She said it before she disappeared into a morphine haze and forgot she even had a son.
Elias liked her better that way. Forgetful. Quiet.
**********************************************************************************************
Elias left the office at 10:12 p.m.
His driver was silent, as always. The car smelled like dry leather and air conditioning. Elias didn't speak until they turned on 7th.
"Orbis?"
"Confirmed," the driver said. "Senator's waiting in the back."
Of course, he was.
Elias leaned back and unlocked his phone. Five new emails. Two calendar invites. One notification from a system that shouldn't exist anymore — ARCHIVE-9: External Access Logged.
He stared at it.
That system had been retired four years ago. It was only accessible by his office. And it hadn't been online since the fire.
He closed the alert.
Didn't delete it. Just closed it.
Orbis was still a tomb of expensive silence. Gold and oxblood tones. The type of place that made men feel safe enough to be immoral.
Senator Brinker sat in the far booth, picking at the label of his whiskey bottle like it was trying to escape him. He looked the way most men did before Elias rewrote their future: embarrassed to be afraid.
Elias sat across from him and slid over a black folder. Brinker reached, but Elias held it a second longer.
"There are two releases," Elias said. "Option A: you're furious, blindsided by your team's betrayal, and launching a full audit. Option B: you're humble, cooperative, and seeking guidance."
Brinker smirked. "Which one makes me human?"
"They both do. One makes you human with a podcast."
Brinker laughed — too loudly. He scanned the first page, then paused.
"This part here — therapy?" He tapped the folder. "You're serious?"
"Three sessions. With someone from an underserved background. We leak it gently. It'll play well."
Brinker opened his mouth, and closed it. Then nodded.
"That's it?"
"That's it," Elias said. "You'll choose Option B. Say it was your idea."
As Elias left through the side entrance, he noticed a sign posted beside the service elevator.
It was a maintenance report — dated three years ago.
Signed by M. Ferrin.
He paused, eyebrows lifting slightly. That name hadn't crossed his desk since he restructured the intern rotation. Quiet girl. Used to restock the file room and not supposed to have access to Archive-9.
He tore the report off the wall. Folded it twice. Slipped it into his coat pocket.
Inside the car, he checked his phone. Brinker's release had gone live. Predictably heartfelt. Predictably safe.
His inbox pinged with a forward.
Fwd: Re: Patient 047 – Session Notes
Sent from: internal@graveshealth.org
Timestamp: 11:04 p.m.
Attachment: transcript_047.txt
No message body. No explanation. And no record of that sender ever existed.
He hadn't seen that number since…
He didn't open the file.
Instead, he powered off his phone and closed his eyes — not to rest, but to listen.
To the car. To the city. To the silence pressing in around him.
Something had shifted. He just didn't know where the crack had started.
Ava – "Soft Launch"
Ava hated in-person interviews. The lighting was never flattering, the makeup too matte, the energy wrong. Still, "The Listening Chair" had a solid following — older millennials, mostly. Trauma-literate. Ideal convertibles. So she showed up early, flawless and glowing, in her signature tones: warm beige, soft green, organic gold jewelry that said gentle authority.
Mic check. A sip of water. Fluff the throw pillow behind her.
She practiced smiling with her eyes in the reflection of her glass.
"You good to go?" asked the host — Dahlia, late 30s, leather boots and a blunt cut. Cool in a way Ava didn't trust.
Ava nodded. "All set."
The red light clicked on.
"Welcome back, everyone. Today, we're sitting with Ava Marrin — mental health advocate, speaker, and creator of the Safe Space Sundays stream series. Ava, thanks for being here."
"I'm so honored, Dahlia. I've loved your show for years."
"Let's jump right in. You've become something of a movement — people find comfort in the way you talk about grief, trauma, and identity. But you've also drawn some criticism… that you're not actually licensed, that you blur the lines between storytelling and therapy. How do you navigate that?"
Ava smiled, poised.
"Great question. I've always been transparent — I'm not a therapist. I'm someone who's been through it, who's learned to heal out loud. I create spaces for others to feel seen, not diagnosed."
A clean answer. Well-rehearsed. Dahlia nodded and made a note.
But something in her tone shifted.
"In one of your recent streams, you said: 'We become the mirror of whatever love we lacked.' I looked for that phrase. It's not in any published work I could find, but it's almost identical to a quote from a 2015 thesis by Dr. Lorna Gines — a child psychologist you haven't cited before. Coincidence?"
Ava's heart gave a quiet kick.
"Honestly? Probably subconscious. I read so much — I'm sure I absorb things that linger. That one just came from my own experience of... navigating absence."
She held eye contact. Warm. Vulnerable. It worked.
But Dahlia didn't blink.
"Fair. So — were you ever her patient?"
"I… no. I've never met her."
Dahlia smiled politely and moved on.
But Ava's throat was dry now, the air too thick. She answered the next fifteen minutes of questions on autopilot, drifting, watching herself perform from somewhere just behind her own eyes.
When the episode aired two days later, the comments were mostly kind. Her audience defended her. But there were ripples — not large, just present.
🕳️ Strange vibe from the host lol
🎧 That one part about the mirror quote… anyone else feels weird about that?
🔎 I googled Gines too. Found a whole paper. Same exact wording tbh.
She ignored them. Reposted a clip from the episode with her best pull quote. Controlled the frame. Smiled in stories. Lit a candle.
But in the privacy of her apartment, she paced. Restless. Flicking through emails, clearing DMs, rereading old notes like they might vanish from public view if she stared hard enough.
Two days later, she messaged someone she hadn't spoken to in years.
ELIAS / 3:42 AM:
"It's Ava. I need a favor."
She didn't expect a fast reply. He always had boundaries — too many, if you asked her.
ELIAS / 4:11 AM:
"What kind?"
She hesitated.
"Do you still know people who can clean things up?"
A pause.
Then:
"Depends what kind of mess."
"A quote I used… they traced it. Not sure how far it'll go. I'm just… feeling exposed."
"Don't engage. Stay visible, but not reactive. If they're looking for blood, don't show them where to cut."
Typical Elias. Vague. Cold. Like a priest in a burned-out church.
"That's it?"
"That's the game."
She stared at the screen for a long time after that.
His words felt correct, but not comforting. They landed like glass — beautiful and dangerous and sharp when repeated aloud.
She followed his advice anyway.
The next stream was quieter. Comments slower. Subtly more skeptical.
Ava told herself it was just the algorithm.
But later that night, she opened her medicine cabinet. Her anxiety meds were in a neat row, unmarked amber bottles, some prescribed, others not. She stared at them like they might speak.
She didn't take anything.
But she counted how many pills were left.
Just in case.
Ava had been trying to partner with Mia Kael for over a year. She hoped this would finally bury the disaster with Dahlia.
Big numbers, clean aesthetic, a crowd that skewed younger and more trusting. Mia was the "real deal" — certified life coach, wellness brand deals, and just enough trauma to make her palatable but not unstable.
So when Mia's team reached out for a joint livestream on "Owning Your Healing," Ava prepped like it was the Super Bowl.
Moodboard. Outfit grid. Pre-written talking points. Ring light placement.
No notes. No improvising.
The stream started strong.
Mia: "I think what drew me to you, Ava, is how radically accessible your voice is. You're not gatekeeping healing. You're making it communal."
Ava: "That's the whole goal. We heal better in front of each other. Privacy breeds shame."
Comments poured in.
✨ These two together?? Dead
🌱 Crying already
💬 Why does this feel like a TED Talk in a hug
Halfway through, Mia brought up a recent workshop she hosted for grief processing.
"I remember something one of my mentors used to say — 'If your pain doesn't find a voice, it'll find a wound.' Ever heard that?"
Ava blinked. The phrase sparked recognition.
But not from any book.
She'd used it. Claimed it. Last year. Word-for-word. On a podcast.
Out of instinct, she replied:
"Oh, that quote — that's actually mine."
A beat of silence.
Mia tilted her head.
"Really? That's odd. I learned it at a somatics intensive two years ago. I think it was coined by—"
Ava cut her off with a laugh. Too loud. Unnatural.
"Who hasn't said it, right? I mean… pain is universal."
It didn't land. Mia moved on with grace. But Ava felt it — the tiny lurch in the comment section. Someone had clipped it already. "Wait what?" "Lmao did she just steal that in real time?" "Huhhhh???"
She smiled harder. Forced her way through the rest of the stream.
By the end, Mia was polite but brisk.
The goodbye hug never happened.
The repost never came.
Later that night, the internet pounced.
📱 Twitter:
"Ava just gaslit Mia Kael on her own quote and called it universal. I'm screaming."
"Why is Ava always vaguely referencing things but never sourcing? I used to love her."
"It's giving AI-generated empathy."
📸 Instagram:
Mia posted a cryptic story:
"If you borrow, cite. If you lead, honor. If you platform, don't plagiarize."
Ava panicked.
She tried to DM Mia. No response.
She posted a story. "Just want to say I deeply respect all my peers in this space. Sometimes we overlap in language because we're aligned in purpose."
It didn't help.
The comments turned nasty.
By morning, she'd lost 500 followers.
Ava's nails tapped against her phone screen as she scrolled through her blocked list. She hovered over one name — Elias.
Then she called him.
AVA: "I need help."
ELIAS (tired): "You always do."
AVA: "You said not to engage. That didn't work."
ELIAS: "No. You didn't listen."
AVA: "It's getting worse. This is different. It's public. It's snowballing. I need a reset. I need to make it stop."
ELIAS: "…I know someone."
Silence.
AVA: "Who?"
ELIAS: "He's not in this world. But he knows how to change the channel. Move a few pieces. Scare the right people. Buy you some silence."
AVA: "Is he expensive?"
ELIAS: "Yes. But the cost isn't always money."
Later that day, she got a text.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
"You Ava? Name's Cal. Let's talk."