dreamszilla

Forensic psychiatrist Dr. Milovan Nedeljković gets assigned to a secretive case in Montenegro's Russian embassy. Image generated with OpenAI If there was one thing he hated, it was calls to his work phone outside office hours. He waited, hoping the phone would finally stop ringing. Jovana and the boys were tense. They knew how demanding his job was and that, because of it, he was often absent even in thought. When the ringing sounded for the fourth time, he could no longer ignore it. Someone was persistent in trying to reach him, which had to mean something urgent had happened. He walked over to the phone and grabbed it nervously. It turned out to be the chief of police who needed Milovan so badly. He pressed the green button and answered. "Hello?" "I was just about to send a patrol to check whether something had happened to you. Why did it take you so long to answer?" "You know how it is. I respect working hours, but I value my free time with family even...

A guy makes a REALLY strong cup of coffee.  Image generated with OpenAI The matte black bag arrived without a return address, vacuum-sealed and heavy enough to feel like lead. I had shelled out forty pounds for a boutique roast labelled 'Espresso Self', a name so pun-heavy I almost regretted the purchase before I'd even broken the seal. I had found the listing on a buried, text-only forum frequented by neuro-hackers and over-caffeinated data analysts. The transaction had required a cryptocurrency transfer and a digital liability waiver that I had assumed was a piece of edgy, immersive marketing. It promised a "transformative, full-bodied experience that awakens the soul," the kind of copy usually reserved for unregulated nootropics or high-end yoga retreats. In my five-a.m. stupor, running on three hours of sleep and staring down a brutal freelance coding deadline, I didn't care about the philosophy. I just wanted a cup of coffee that would kick-start a Tuesda...

Mr. Ranjan is employed as a chaffeur for Vishwas and Malti Gupta, and tries to keep a professional distance, until Malti confides in him. Image generated with OpenAI When Malti slid into the back seat, Mr. Ranjan was fiddling with the knob of the heat regulator. The panel outlet blasted warm air into the expanse of the car, long enough for the windows to begin fogging up against the unceremonious arrival of a somber October evening. "I am afraid the heater's broken," Mr. Ranjan stated, rotating the dial back to zero as he put the black Honda in reverse and maneuvered out of the tight patch of gravel between two pickup trucks. "Let Vishwas know," Malti said and shifted in her seat - upholstery squeaking under her salwar -covered thighs - leaning into the window and peering out at the neighbourhood she had grown up in. "I will, Madam ji. Will Sir take the metro tonight?" Mr. Ranjan turned his head to look at Malti expectantly as he grasped the steering...