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[leonmartinweb]

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[plasticinjectionmolds]

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[morriscatesk51]

Exploring Plastic Injection Molding Companies in China: A Focus on Acrylic Injection Molding and Quality Manufacturing

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[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

summary: Declan O'Hara is intrigued by Cassandra "Cassie" Jones, Freddie’s niece, who’s trying to carve her own place in the Rutshire media world. After her bold broadcast challenges the status quo, Declan finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her unapologetic spirit and the fight she's ready to wage. Will their paths collide in ways they hadn't anticipated?

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo)

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

[here], [1]

oo. what the hell was I doin'?

The air in the radio station’s office was stagnant, thick with the mingling scents of stale coffee, damp paper, and the faint tang of cheap cleaning spray. The room was cluttered—stacks of forgotten paperwork teetered on desks, old coffee mugs lined the corners, and a dusty fan in the corner rotated half-heartedly.

A cluster of staff milled about near the break room door, chatting idly as they shuffled papers or scrolled on their phones.

Cassie stood apart, her notepad clutched tightly against her chest, a contrast to the chaos around her. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though a few stray strands framed her face. She wore a plain navy blouse and slacks that were practical but pressed, betraying her effort to maintain a professional appearance in an environment that hardly seemed to care.

Mr. Crawford sat slouched at his desk, a man whose very posture radiated disinterest. His graying mustache twitched slightly as he leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, the top button of his shirt undone. He smelled faintly of sweat and cigarette smoke, with an undertone of something sharper—perhaps the remnants of last night’s whiskey.

Cassie’s eyes flicked to the desk in front of him. It was a mess of coffee-stained papers and pens chewed down to the plastic, with no sign of the kind of attention she hoped to command.

“Mr. Crawford,” she began, her voice calm but firm despite the tightness in her chest. She gestured slightly with her notepad as she spoke, “I’ve done the research. This story—about the council’s missing funds—it’s got everything. Corruption, negligence, people suffering because the money meant for community projects vanished into thin air. Listeners would eat it up.”

Crawford didn’t bother glancing at her notes or meeting her eyes. Instead, his gaze drifted lazily to the window behind her, as if the striped sunlight cutting through the blinds offered him more intrigue than the words she’d painstakingly prepared.

Cassie sighed, her grip tightening on the notepad as she shifted her weight. She watched him for a moment, taking in the deep-set lines of his face and his air of detached superiority. A pang of doubt gnawed at her resolve, but she quickly shoved it aside.

“It’s not the right fit, love,” he said finally, his words accompanied by the faint wheeze of his breath, “People don’t tune in to your show for all that doom and gloom. They want something lighter. Cheerier. Something that makes them smile while they’re making dinner.”

Cassie’s stomach churned at his words, a familiar mix of frustration and resignation settling over her. Lighter. Cheerier. The phrases clanged in her mind like hollow bells, reminders of how often her ideas had been whittled down to something palatable, something safe.

Her show—once a source of pride—had become a shadow of what she’d envisioned when she first started. She’d imagined herself uncovering stories that mattered: injustices, hidden truths, the kind of reporting that made people sit up and pay attention. Instead, her work had been boxed into a mold. Segments about bake-offs, local fairs, and feel-good community spotlights.

To her credit, she’d done her best to inject some life into it. Her voice carried a natural rhythm, a way of pulling people in even when the content was mundane. If the story was about a garden club’s latest flower show, she’d spin it into a tale of passion and rivalry. If it was a town charity event, she’d find the human angle, weaving a thread of emotion through the narrative.

Her listeners seemed to love her for it, but it wasn’t enough—not for her.

This wasn’t the kind of work that made a difference. It wasn’t the kind of work that could.

“I can make it engaging,” she said, her voice firmer now, her hands gripping the edges of her notes, “It doesn’t have to be doom and gloom. It’s about accountability, about the truth—”

“Drop it,” he interrupted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his eyes flickering with annoyance. He rubbed his temple, as though her persistence was giving him a headache, “You stick with what you’re good at—human interest, fluff pieces. Now, for tonight, you’ll cover that story about the charity bake-off. The station promised them a mention.”

The lead weight in her chest grew heavier. Stick with what you’re good at. The words stung, a sharp reminder of how small her ambitions had been made to feel.

Her mouth opened to protest, but she hesitated. This was the game, wasn’t it? Push too far, and she’d get a reputation—difficult, too ambitious, “not a team player.” She let the words die in her throat, swallowing the frustration that threatened to rise.

“May I at least drop it with you?” she asked instead, her tone even but tinged with determination. She held out her notes, “Just give it a glance before dropping the idea completely?”

Crawford didn’t even glance at her. He busied himself straightening a stack of papers with a theatrical air of importance.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, though his tone betrayed no real intention, “Leave it on my desk.”

Cassie placed the notepad down carefully, the motion deliberate, almost defiant. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mind racing through every frustration she’d swallowed working here. She thought of her show—the one she’d once been so proud of.

It was supposed to be hers, a reflection of her passion for storytelling. Instead, it had been molded into something safe, toothless. Segments on community bake-offs and local fairs. Puff pieces designed to please advertisers and offend no one.

And yet, even in that confined space, she’d tried. She’d poured herself into every script, every broadcast, weaving intrigue where there was none, giving even the dullest stories a pulse. Her audience deserved that much.

But what about her?

Cassie straightened, her eyes meeting Crawford’s impassive expression one last time.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice clipped.

She turned on her heel and left the office, her pulse a mix of anger and resolve.

The studio felt colder than usual, the faint hum of the equipment doing little to fill the oppressive silence. Cassie stepped inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. The gesture felt more like shutting herself in a cage than anything else.

Her seat creaked as she sank into it, the familiar sounds of the studio offering no comfort tonight. The charity bake-off notes were already on her desk, neatly arranged, as though mocking her with their pristine lines.

She picked them up, her hands moving on autopilot. She read through the bullet points about the local bakery donating proceeds, the heartfelt quotes from participants, the token mention of the funds going to a children’s hospital. It was the kind of story that would barely take five minutes to write, but she couldn’t bring herself to put pen to paper yet.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the control board in front of her, where the green lights flickered faintly.

This wasn’t why she’d chosen this path. Journalism had always been about chasing the truth, shining a light where others dared not look. But here she was, with her voice reduced to narrating bake-offs and community fairs, as though the world didn’t need accountability or courage—just distraction.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as her mind drifted. She thought of the council’s missing funds, the questions no one else dared to ask, the answers that could have made a real difference. That story could have mattered, could have uncovered truths that changed lives.

But instead, she was here.

With a deep breath, Cassie forced her focus back to the present. She adjusted the microphone, the familiar motion grounding her.

Flipping the switch, she spoke into the void, her voice steady despite the resentment simmering beneath the surface.

“Good evening, Rutshire!” she began, her tone warm and inviting, practiced to perfection, “This is your host, Cassandra Jones, but as you all well know, you can always call me Cassie! Always bringing you the stories that make our little corner of the world shine.”

It wasn’t just words. It was how she said them, the little pauses, the way she adjusted her tempo, making it sound effortless. One time, one lady at the mall had stopped ehr when she recognized the Jones' voice, telling how listen to her voice always made her day.

And, well, her show usually started at 4 PM, so that was something.

“Tonight, I want to tell you about a community coming together for something truly special: the annual charity bake-off. Bakers from all over Rutshire have gathered to compete—and to give back. This year’s proceeds will go to the Rutshire Children’s Hospital, providing resources and care to the kids who need it most.”

Her voice filled the space with an easy warmth, the facts rolling out with a smoothness that made them seem lighter, more immediate. Even in her dissatisfaction, she knew how to shape a story, how to give it weight when needed.

“This isn’t just about the competition,” she continued, a slight shift in her tone adding a layer of sincerity, “but about the kindness and generosity that make Rutshire such a special place to call home.”

Her delivery was careful, but not forced, as though she was telling a friend a story she didn’t mind repeating. She wasn’t changing the facts—she was simply breathing life into them.

And as she knew how to do it, she continued to deliver the news, despite the anger lingering in her chest.

The streetlights flickered as Cassie drove through the quiet, familiar streets of Rutshire. The sound of the tires humming against the asphalt felt almost too loud in the silence that surrounded her. She turned the radio dial absentmindedly, tuning out the stories of community events and local happenings. She’d heard them all before—enough to make her feel like a bystander in her own life, watching the world pass her by through the windshield of her car.

Her phone buzzed in the cupholder, and she glanced at the screen. It was her uncle.

“Hey, kiddo,” his voice greeted her warmly through the speaker. She smiled instantly, the sound of his voice always bringing a momentary relief, even if it couldn’t erase the tension curling in her chest.

“Hey, old man,” she replied, the words more automatic than anything else.

“You were great tonight, Cass,” Freddie said, his enthusiasm practically spilling through the phone, “I swear, you made that bake-off sound like the bloody Oscars.”

Cassie glanced at the radio, hearing her colleague's voice spill into the car. The words blurred together in a familiar, comforting hum, but something inside her had already tuned out. She wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion, the frustration, or just the monotony of it all, but she felt herself disconnecting from it all, like she was hearing it from a distance.

She responded quietly, “Thanks, Uncle Freddie,” her tone calm, but there was a touch of distance she couldn’t quite mask.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. She could almost picture Freddie’s face, that half-grin of his, layered with the usual care he always tried to hide.

“I mean it, Cass. You’ve got something they don’t understand. The way you tell a story—you give it life! It’s like… You make people see the world differently.”

Cassie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. Freddie was right—she had always known how to make the smallest detail come alive, to make people care. It had been her strength, her passion, the reason she’d chosen journalism.

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

The bake-off story—it was just noise. Safe. Easy. The same thing every year.

Cheerier.

“You’re just saying that,” she murmured, the words slipping out more quickly than she intended.

“No, I mean it,” Freddie’s voice was insistent, a little softer now, “I just wish they’d give you more of a chance. You’ve got a lot more to say than just… Fluff pieces, you know? You deserve the stories that matter. You deserve to be out there, really making a difference.”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her eyes momentarily caught by the reflection of her car in the store window. The soft glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across her face.

“I know,” she said quietly, though the words felt like a knot in her throat.

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, to herself, or to the version of her who had walked into this career full of hope. The one who still believed in making an impact. That person felt like a stranger now.

“You’ve got a future ahead of you, Cass. You’ve always been someone who stands out,” She could lsiten to his smile as he said that, it made her smile a little more too, “Don’t let them box you in. You’ve got the kind of talent that can really change things. Don’t forget that.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her hands pressing against the wheel a little harder. She could feel the familiar stirrings of something—determination, maybe, or something like it. She wanted to be the person Freddie thought she was.

She wanted to be more than this.

“Thanks,” she finally said, her voice quiet, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them, “I’ll figure it out.”

Another long pause on the other end, and then Freddie’s easy chuckle broke the silence.

“I know you will. You always do, just don't blow anything up.”

Cassie chuckled, “Yeah, I'll try. Talk to you tomorrow, Uncle.”

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

She hung up the phone, feeling the absence of his words linger in the air for a moment longer than she expected. The road ahead seemed endless, but for a fleeting second, she couldn’t help but wonder if Freddie was right. She had more to say. Maybe she always had.

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

The radio continued to chatter in the background, her colleague’s voice now a steady hum as Cassie kept her eyes on the road. She wasn’t sure how to get from here to where she wanted to be, but as the glow of Rutshire faded into the distance, she knew one thing for certain.

She wasn’t going to stop trying to figure it out. Not yet.

The bar was quiet for a Thursday morning, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the soft clink of glassware being set down and the low murmur of the few early risers. It wasn’t the busiest time, but it never really was. The regulars were there, still half-closed in the warm haze of sleep, some nursing their first coffee of the day, others leaning over papers or whispering in low tones, trading stories or reflecting on the night before.

The wooden floors creaked softly underfoot as Cassie made her way to the bar, the familiar sound echoing through the empty space. The air smelled faintly of old beer, with a hint of stale cigarettes lingering in the corners, mixed with the sharper scent of freshly brewed coffee. It was a blend that, for her, felt as comfortable as her own breath.

The radio filling the background quietly.

She slid onto a barstool with practiced ease, her body instinctively relaxing into the worn leather of the seat.

The lights above were dimmed just enough to give the room a cozy, intimate feel, casting shadows across the shelves stocked with bottles that had seen more than their fair share of nights like this one. Behind the bar, Baz moved with a rhythm born of years spent here, every motion fluid, like he was a part of the place itself.

She didn’t need to ask for her drink. Baz, like always, seemed to know exactly what she needed.

He set a pint of something dark in front of her, the foam just right, and it took her a second to realize how much she’d been waiting for it. She didn’t say anything, not at first. She just lifted the glass to her lips and took a long sip, the bitterness of the beer almost too fitting, like it was somehow tied to the frustration simmering beneath her skin.

She let it settle in her chest for a moment, her eyes scanning the room, but it was more to avoid looking at Baz than anything else.

He had that way of making her feel seen, even when she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

“How’s the radio business these days, darling?” Baz’s voice was soft, but it carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. They both knew she’d been struggling with it lately, but it was easier not to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.

Cassie shrugged, swirling the beer in her glass, her fingers brushing the cold surface as she considered how to answer. Her mind was a mess, but she wasn’t about to unload it all here, not when it felt like everyone else in this room had their own things to ignore.

“Same as always,” she said, her voice flat, “Same stories. Same people. No one cares about the real stuff. It's all fluff.”

Baz didn’t respond right away, just watched her, like he could tell there was more beneath that statement. She could feel him studying her, but she refused to meet his eyes.

She wasn’t ready to talk about it—not yet. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

“People like fluff,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “It’s easy. It doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”

Cassie didn’t say anything at first, letting his words sit aside as she took a breath. The frustration inside her bubbled up, but she swallowed it down.

She didn’t need another lecture today. She didn’t need him to tell her how hard it was for everyone, or how nothing ever really changes.

“That’s the problem,” she muttered, finally meeting his gaze, “People don’t want to hear the truth. They want the easy stuff. And I’m tired of giving it to them.”

Baz raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter as he wiped down a glass, “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation, “But I’m not gonna sit around hoping that one day someone decides I’m good enough for the stories that actually matter.”

Baz tilted his head, studying her again. He wasn’t trying to offer solutions. That wasn’t his style.

He let her say what she needed to say, and gave her space to feel frustrated. That's why he was a damn good bar owner.

“Maybe they’re just not ready for it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he wasn’t talking about her job anymore.

Cassie let out a short, bitter laugh, “And maybe I’m not waiting for them. I’m done with that.”

She tasted her words as they left her mouth, bitter. The truth was, she didn’t know what she was waiting for anymore.

Maybe she just wanted a break. Maybe she was tired of always trying to make people listen. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Not to Baz.

He leaned back, watching her carefully, his face unreadable.

“Alright. So what’s your plan?” His hand moved almost absentmindedly to the radio dial, turning it until a voice crackled through the static.

The sound was unmistakable—a voice she recognized instantly. One of her colleagues, mid-monologue, delivering the day’s take on whatever sensational headline they’d latched onto. It was faint, almost drowned by the static, but the cadence was familiar: deliberate pauses, calculated inflection, designed to hook listeners and keep them invested.

Cassie felt the prickle of discomfort at hearing it, even slightly. The words blurred together, more noise than substance, but the undertone of it all—performance, rather than authenticity—was clear to her. She tried not to let it distract her, but it was there, a quiet reminder of everything she’d been wrestling with.

She looked down at her drink, swirling the liquid in slow, thoughtful circles.

The question hung heavy between them. What was her plan?

Did she even have one? Cassie didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep doing this—circling around her own indecision, feeling like she had to apologize for wanting more.

“I don’t have one,” she admitted finally, the words coming out quieter than she’d intended, “But I’m not just gonna keep... Doing this. I can’t.”

Baz didn’t say anything for a moment, just let her have the silence. The low hum of conversation from the other side of the bar, the clink of glasses, all of it felt like a world away. Cassie’s fingers tightened around her glass, her mind racing, but somehow, she felt just a little bit lighter now that it was out in the open. Maybe it didn’t solve anything, but at least she could stop pretending.

She glanced back at her friend, meeting the pity she knew she would face. The way his lips turned up and his brows furrowed.

She hated it.

“I mean—Sometimes, I think it’s all pointless,” her voice was barely above a whisper, almost like she was talking to herself, “We keep doing the same thing over and over, pushing the same stories, and nothing really changes. It's like no one even wants to hear anything different.”

She paused, a fleeting thought crossing her mind. “What if we gave them something that actually mattered? Would they even acknowledge it?”

Baz didn't respond immediately, his focus on wiping down a glass. His hands moved methodically, as though the task required more attention than it really did. Cassie could tell he was listening, though—she could feel it in the way the air in the room seemed to hold still for just a beat longer.

He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his eyes not leaving the glass as he set it down with a faint clink.

“Does it matter?” he asked, thoughtful, “You give them what they want, or you give them what you think they need. But in the end, they’ll either care, or they won’t. Can’t control that.”

“It does matter!” she answered, her voice firming with resolve, her frustration bubbling to the surface, “It’s about giving them something that goes deeper than just the surface. No more chasing headlines. No more easy, shallow stories. I’m talking about something real. Real pain. Real stories. Something they can actually connect with—something that doesn’t sound or look fake.”

Baz raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back slightly, clearly entertained.

“You mean like… Venturer?” His tone was playful, but the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes wasn’t lost on her.

He had always known that Cassie had a sharp mind, a hunger for real stories—the same hunger that Freddie, Rupert, and Declan had been searching for almost a year. But Cassie had never been one to engage directly with Venturer.

She had always preferred to keep her distance from the spotlight, staying on the outside where things were quieter, less exposed—at least publicly.

A little thing in the shell, as Baz himself used to say, back when she had first come to Rutshire. She’d always been the one who stayed in the background, content to watch rather than dive into the drama.

I don't want my face in the screens, she had told him once when her uncle first brought up the possibility of her joining the team. It was a simple, firm declaration. She’d never wanted that kind of attention.

But Venturer was different. It was a project created by her uncle and his well-known friends. She’d never spoken to them directly about it, except when her uncle and Baz mentioned it.

She had been watching from afar, keeping an eye on their ideas as they slowly began to take shape and go live on TV.

“I watch it sometimes when I get the time,” she said, her tone measured, almost as if she were brushing off the question. But there was something in her voice, a subtle shift, that didn’t go unnoticed.

Baz paused, his smirk softening just a touch. The playful teasing faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity behind his eyes. He leaned back slightly, considering her words.

“You don’t just ‘watch it,’” Baz said, a knowing glint in his eye. “You’re paying attention. Venturer might not be your thing, but you’re still watching.”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his gaze but refusing to back down.

“It’s hard not to notice something that’s everywhere,” she replied, though her words were lighter now. “But I’m not exactly in the business of playing their game. It’s not my scene.”

Baz raised an eyebrow. He didn’t press her further but lingered on the point, his curiosity deepening. He knew her well enough to see that there was more beneath the surface—more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

Baz chuckled softly, his lips curling into that familiar smirk, “Now I’m curious, what do you think? You think we’re actually doing something worth watching?”

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, her mind wandering back to her uncle’s involvement in the project, the high-profile connections he had cultivated, and the way the whole thing had grown into something she hadn’t expected, “I mean, yeah. I think there’s potential. It’s raw, unfiltered... Something real.”

Baz raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

“And you’re just gonna keep watching from the sidelines? Not gonna get involved yourself?”

The question rang in the air, a challenge, but Cassie wasn’t ready to answer it just yet. Instead, she shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had become.

Yet, she narrowed her eyes at him, getting a glimpse of his smirk... Now it made sense why he had mentioned Venturer for starters

“I already have a job, Baz.”

“A shit one,” he pointed out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bar. His voice was calm, but the words hit with precision, “Your colleagues don’t appreciate your talent. I’ve seen the way they sideline your ideas, and I’ve heard the segments they let you do. It’s filler, Cass. They don’t take you seriously, and they never will.”

Baz leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the bar. The faint overhead light caught the edges of his smirk, giving him an almost mischievous air. He let his words linger between them, studying her reaction.

Cassie tilted her head, her brow arching slightly. She wasn’t about to let him needle her without a fight.

“And would you?” she asked sharply, leaning forward just enough to close the space between them, “TV is more misogynistic than radio, and we both know that.”

Baz didn’t flinch. He always enjoyed a challenge, Cassie remembered.

“Sure, it is,” he admitted, “But at least there’s a chance to be heard. Right now, you’re stuck spinning your wheels while everyone around you is taking credit for your work.”

The voice of her colleague on the radio grew clearer, the words breaking through the haze of static. Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t fully register it yet.

“And you think TV’s the answer? Let’s not pretend it’s any different. Bigger platforms, bigger egos—it’s the same game, Baz… A worse game.”

“Maybe,” he said simply, shrugging, “But if you’re gonna fight the fight, why not fight it somewhere familiar?”

The radio crackled again, the voice cutting through more clearly now.

“... An in-depth investigation into the council’s misallocation of funds...”

Cassie’s fingers froze on the glass, her breath catching in her throat. The words were faint, still mingled with static, but they pierced through her thoughts like a sharp knife.

Her eyes snapped to the radio, her pulse quickening. Baz followed her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly.

It couldn't be, could it? Cassie’s mind drifted back to days ago, what she had written in her notes as she listened to her colleague—Dan’s words. Each one of them felt like a stone sinking into her chest, heavy and unavoidable.

The bar suddenly felt too small. The low hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint music from the jukebox seemed muffled, distant, as if the world outside the static of the radio had faded to nothing.

Cassie’s breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the frustration swelling in her chest.  

The air around her, once familiar and warm, now felt stifling. She looked down at her glass, still in her hand, the amber liquid trembling slightly as her grip tightened. The sharp scent of beer mixed with the faint aroma of fried food coming from the kitchen, but it was all background noise to her racing thoughts.  

Baz’s voice came through the haze, low and careful.

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

Her eyes snapped to him, wide and searching. The concern etched on his face barely registered. Instead, she pointed toward the radio, her voice tight.

“Turn. That. Up.”  

Baz hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obliged, twisting the knob until the words filled the air.  

“... Our findings reveal years of systemic negligence, with ties between high-ranking officials and private contractors raising serious questions...”  

It was all there. Her angles, her research, her work. Her chest tightened painfully, and she forced herself to take a deep breath, though it felt like dragging air through a straw.

Her grip on the glass loosened, and she set it down carefully on the bar, the slight clunk louder than it should have been. She straightened, her mind a storm of disbelief and simmering rage.

Her surroundings came back into focus, but only just—the stained wood of the bar beneath her hands, the creak of an old stool shifting as someone moved nearby, the flicker of a neon beer sign casting a faint red glow over the wall.  

“That’s my story,” she said, the words escaping her lips before she even realized she had spoken.  

Baz frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of her reaction, “What are you talking about?”  

“That’s my bloody story,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time, but trembling slightly at the edges, “The council, the mismanagement, the contractors—it’s all mine. I pitched it yesterday. Crawford told me it wasn’t ‘cheerier” to air.”  

The weight of it hit her fully now. She leaned on the bar for support, her hands pressing into the smooth surface as her mind raced.

How did this happen? How had her work ended up on the air, delivered by someone else?

Baz leaned forward, his expression darkening, “You’re sure? I mean... Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

“No,” she snapped, “It’s not a coincidence, Baz. I know my work. I know every word of it.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, and Cassie shook her head, trying to clear the haze. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as though the betrayal wasn’t just professional but personal.

Cassie straightened, her jaw tightening as fury replaced the shock. She grabbed her bag in one swift motion, the strap digging into her shoulder as she turned toward the door.

Baz stood up straighter, his hands resting on the bar.

“Cass, hold on. What are you going to do?”

She paused, her hand gripping the edge of the chair she’d just abandoned.

“I’m going to the station. He doesn’t get to do this.”

“Cass, think about this—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice steely, “I’m done thinking, Baz. It’s my story, my work, and I’m not letting it slide.”

The bar’s warm light felt glaring as she strode toward the exit, each step sharp and purposeful. The cool night air hit her face like a slap, grounding her just enough to keep moving.

Baz watched her go, her sharp movements cutting through the warm haze of the bar like a blade. For a second, he considered following her, but the determination in her stride stopped him.

Instead, Baz turned toward the phone mounted on the wall behind the bar. The old rotary clattered as he picked it up, his fingers moving with practiced ease to dial the number.

He waited, glancing toward the door she had just stormed through, her words still ringing in his ears.

The line clicked after a few rings.  

“Freddie,” Baz said quickly, his voice lower than usual, tinged with urgency, “It’s me.”  

“Baz?” Freddie’s voice came through, “What’s going on?”  

Baz leaned against the counter, one hand running through his hair as he glanced toward the door again.

“It’s Cass,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, “I think you better head to Crawford's radio station right now.”

A longer pause this time, Baz guessed he had probably awoken the man, “What do you mean?”  

Baz exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

“She will probably throw a bomb and explode the place, Freddie. They had stolen her story.”

The pale morning light filtered through the windows of the station's parking lot, casting long shadows against the asphalt. Cassie pulled her car to a sharp stop, the tires crunching on loose gravel. Her pulse raced as she stepped out, the crisp morning air biting at her skin. Everything about the scene felt surreal, the stillness outside a stark contrast to the storm building within her.  

The station was already buzzing with its usual morning energy. The faint hum of muffled voices and clattering keyboards carried through the slightly ajar front door. Cassie pushed it open, her steps firm and unrelenting as she entered. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow over the cluttered interior—a mess of half-empty coffee cups, stray papers, and tangled wires.  

Her boots clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she passed the break room. A few of her colleagues turned to glance at her, their expressions ranging from vague curiosity to mild discomfort. They must have sensed her fury, the way her jaw was set and her eyes burned with a fire they hadn’t seen before.  

Dan’s voice drifted faintly from the studio down the hall, calm and self-assured as always. But to Cassie, it sounded smug, taunting, every syllable dripping with betrayal.  

She reached the studio door just as the ON AIR sign flickered off, signaling a break. Her heart pounded as she pushed the door open, stepping inside to find Dan, Crawford, and a sound technician huddled together.

Crawford leaned lazily against the control panel, his disinterest palpable, while Dan adjusted his tie, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t our rising star,” Dan drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, “Come to bask in the glory of our latest hit segment?”  

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“That segment,” she said evenly, though her voice trembled with barely-contained anger, “Was my pitch. My research. My story.”  

Crawford sighed, rubbing his temple as though this confrontation was an inconvenience rather than a betrayal.

“Look, Cassie,” he began, his tone patronizing, “it’s not about ownership here. It’s about the station putting out the best possible content. Dan’s delivery works for the audience. He knows how to connect—”  

“He knows how to steal, you both do!” Cassie snapped, cutting him off, “You told me my story wasn’t good enough to air, and now suddenly it’s headline material because he’s the one presenting it?”

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, come on, Cassie. It’s not like you were going to do anything with it. Consider it a team effort.”  

Her vision blurred with rage. Every patronizing word felt like a slap, each excuse twisting the knife deeper.

“You don’t get to take credit for my work,” she said, her voice rising.  

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

“Lower your voice,” he barked, glancing toward the technician, “We’re going back on air in two minutes.”  

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

Before he could finish, Cassie moved. Her body acted before her mind could second-guess. She shoved Dan’s chair aside, ignoring his startled yelp as he stumbled. Sliding into his place, she locked the door with a sharp twist and adjusted the microphone in front of her.

“Cassie!” Crawford bellowed, pounding on the glass partition, “What the hell are you doing?”

She ignored him, her fingers flying over the console to flip the switch. The red ON AIR light blinked on.

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

One of them shook his head, panicked, “We can’t. She’s got full control of the board.”

There were two or three good things on being Freddie Jones’ niece.

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

“Good morning, Rutshire. This is Cassandra Jones, and I’ve got a story to tell you. But it’s not the one you just heard. No, this one is about the station you’re listening to right now—the lies it tells, the stories it hides, and the people it silences.”

Crawford was livid, his fists pounding against the door as he barked orders at the technicians.

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sir, we’d have to shut down the whole station.”

“And lose every listener we’ve just gained?” another technician added, pointing to the monitors that displayed the surging audience numbers.

Crawford froze, his fury replaced by a flicker of fear.

The air in the O’Hara kitchen carried the sweet warmth of butter and vanilla, the scent clinging to every corner like a comforting memory. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden streaks over the marble countertops and glinting off Taggie’s delicate array of mixing bowls and utensils. She worked with precision, her hands deftly folding batter as she tested a new recipe.

The rhythmic scrape of her spatula against the bowl mingled with the faint hum of the radio in the background.

Rupert sat at the breakfast table, a picture of calculated ease, the newspaper spread before him like a shield. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes darted across the columns, though his attention seemed to wander.

Declan leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, his stance casual but his gaze sharp, fixed on nothing in particular. The radio had been little more than background noise—a familiar companion to their morning routine.

But now, the sharp edge in the voice crackling through the speakers commanded Taggie's attention.

She paused, her hand hovering over the mixing bowl, her brow furrowing as she caught a particularly biting phrase.

“Turn that up,” she said abruptly, setting down her spatula.

Rupert raised an eyebrow but complied, folding his newspaper neatly and nodding toward Declan. With an easy motion, Declan leaned over and turned the dial, the static fading to bring Cassie’s voice into sharper focus.

“...And then, they gave it to someone else,” she was saying, her tone laced with indignation and barely restrained anger, “They handed my work, my research, my hours of effort to someone who didn’t earn it. All because they thought it would sell better with his name on it, it would be more profitable if it was told by a a man.”

The room fell still, the normally comforting buzz of kitchen activity replaced by the biting truth in her words. Taggie wiped her hands on her apron, her lips pressing into a thin line as she listened intently. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, his expression shifting to one of genuine interest. Declan remained by the counter, his focus sharp on it, his notes forgotten as his journalist instincts stirred to life.

The words coming from the radio didn’t just cut through the air; they lingered, deliberate, each one a carefully aimed arrow.

“Last year, we buried a story about toxic waste being dumped into local waterways—because the company responsible was a top-tier advertiser. Families got sick, kids missed school, and what did this station do? Nothing. Because money speaks louder than people’s lives here.”

Taggie paused mid-motion, her hands hanging limp as Cassie’s voice seeped into the room. She exchanged a glance with Rupert, who had set his paper down entirely now, his features tight with unspoken thoughts.

“This station silences voices,” Cassie continued, the edge in her tone palpable, “It buries stories that challenge you, stories that could make a difference. It’s not about the truth here. It’s about control—about keeping power in the hands of those who already have it.”

Rupert sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his jaw, his posture tense as though her words had struck a personal chord.

“She’s playing with fire,” he muttered, his tone cautious but far from dismissive, “Crawford’s the type to hold a grudge, and he won’t forgive this. He’s too protective of his image.”

“She’s brave,” Taggie countered, her voice steady and soft, though there was no mistaking the steel underneath. She held Rupert’s gaze, her expression calm but resolute, as though daring him to dismiss her opinion, “It’s reckless, yes, but sometimes that’s what people need to hear.”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t agree—not entirely, anyway—but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he let her words linger in the air, the kitchen momentarily quieter as though everyone was considering them.

If not everyone, him. His gaze lingered on her for a second too long, his smirk fading into something softer.

Declan, leaning against the counter, remained silent, his brow furrowed slightly as his focus stayed fixed on the radio. The steam from his untouched coffee curled lazily upward, but he didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, still tethered to the sharpness of Cassie’s voice.

“Who is she?” he asked after a beat, his tone clipped but carrying a subtle curiosity that he didn’t bother to hide.

“Cassandra Jones,” Taggie replied, her voice quiet but sure, “Freddie’s niece. She’s been here for a few months now—moved from Chicago.”

“Oh, Baz told me about her,” Rupert chimed in, the smirk returning as he leaned back slightly in his chair, “Thought she’d be too meek for a place like this, but... Seems I underestimated her. She’s got a sharp tongue, I’ll give her that.”

Taggie’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a subtle light in her eyes as she straightened slightly.

“I listen to her show at night,” Taggie said simply, her voice steady, her eyes lingering on the now-silent radio, “It was time for everyone to listen to her. I’ve always liked her opinions. She has a way with words.”

Rupert chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he turned his gaze between Taggie and Declan.

“Well, you’ve got a knack for spotting wildflowers with potential, I’ll give you that,” he said, his tone teasing but not dismissive. There was a trace of warmth in the way he looked at her, an acknowledgment of her insight even if he wasn’t quite ready to say he agreed.

He liked it when she spoke with certainty, even if it rubbed against his own instincts. And he didn’t miss the way she looked back at him, a smile creeping out of her teeth.

Declan didn’t join in the exchange, his brow furrowed as he stared at the coffee cup in his hands. His grip tightened slightly, a subconscious response as Cassie’s voice echoed in his thoughts. She’d been bold—too bold, perhaps—but her precision, the deliberate weight behind every word, lingered like a static charge.

Declan’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t take the bait. His attention stayed fixed on the now-fading voice, the static swallowing the last of Cassie’s words.

As the room settled into silence, Rupert glanced at him, one brow raised, “You’re awfully quiet, O’Hara. Something on your mind?”

Declan set his mug down, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter.

“She knows how to get attention,” he said simply, “That’s half the battle.”

Rupert’s smirk widened, “And the other half?”

Declan didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking to the window as though searching for something just out of reach.

“Making sure it’s not wasted,” he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute.

Taggie sighed, resuming her whisking, though the motion was slower, her thoughts clearly divided between the batter in her bowl and what her father had just said.

“—Let me tell you about the sponsors,” Cassie pressed on, her tone dropping into something colder, “The ones who dictate what you hear, who decide what stories matter and what gets erased. We’re not reporting the news—we’re selling it. And the price? Your trust.”

The kitchen was silent save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock and the faint crackle of the broadcast. Taggie moved mechanically now, her hands resuming their work with a distracted air. She caught Rupert’s eye briefly, the unspoken question hanging between them: Is Freddie’s niece insane?

Declan, still silent, felt the faintest flicker of something sharper stir in his chest. It wasn’t anger, exactly, though it wasn’t far off. It was recognition—of a battle he had seen too many times in his own career. She wasn’t just fighting a corrupt system; she was taking a wrecking ball to it, piece by piece.

“She’s naming names,” Declan muttered, almost to himself.

“And burning bridges while she’s at it,” Rupert countered, though his usual air of superiority was absent. He tapped his fingers against the table, the sound rhythmic and deliberate.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on the radio, his smirk fading as the weight of Cassie’s words settled over him. The easy posture he had held moments before shifted, his arms crossing over his chest as though bracing against the storm her voice carried. The kitchen, once bustling with the hum of morning tasks, had gone eerily quiet. Even the faint scrape of Taggie’s utensils ceased, the air heavy with the raw intensity spilling from the radio.

The cadence of Cassie’s voice had changed—deliberate now, each word like a match striking against flint. It wasn’t just anger fueling her, Declan realized. It was something deeper, sharper. Conviction.

“She is burning, for sure,” he murmured, his tone low but deliberate, “if you want people to see the light…”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, his amusement faint but present. “I didn’t peg you for being an optimist.”

“I’m not,” Declan replied, his voice clipped, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tapped absently against the counter as if keeping time with the rhythm of Cassie’s words. “But I know what it takes to shake people awake. And she’s doing it.”

On the radio, Cassie’s voice dropped, slower now, as though the weight of her decision was settling over her in real-time. The ticking clock above the stove seemed to grow louder, filling the gaps between her sentences, each tick amplifying the tension.

“I can’t stay here,” Cassie’s voice rang out, steady but carrying the weight of exhaustion, each syllable laced with unyielding defiance, “Not in a place that values profit over principle, that rewards complacency and punishes integrity. This is my last broadcast. Consider this my resignation, live on air.”

There was a brief pause, the kind of silence that felt alive, as if the entire town had stopped to hold its breath. The rustle of papers and panicked murmurs on the other side of the broadcast began to rise, chaotic and desperate.

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

The background noise crackled through the radio, growing louder as the urgency escalated. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing as he absorbed the cacophony.

“And one last thing,” Cassie’s voice cut through the static again, this time tinged with a grim sort of triumph, “Fuck you, Charles Crawford!”

Declan’s brows shot up, amusement breaking through his otherwise unreadable expression. Rupert, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, shaking his head as though he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or exasperated.

“Crawford’s probably tearing his hair out by now,” Rupert remarked dryly, his tone carrying a trace of grudging admiration, “Can’t say I envy him.”

The tension in the room was palpable, lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. Taggie, who had been meticulously smoothing the edges of her apron, paused mid-motion. Her fingers fidgeted slightly, betraying the concern that clouded her otherwise calm expression.

“Do you think they’ll arrest her?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual, hesitant.

Rupert didn’t answer, his attention briefly caught by the steady drip of a coffee pot on the counter. His silence wasn’t unusual, but the shift in his expression—an uncharacteristic tightness around his mouth—hinted at unease.

Declan’s silence, however, felt heavier. He remained still, his brow slightly furrowed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He wasn’t ignoring the question; he was somewhere else entirely, his mind dissecting every word Cassie had spoken, the deliberate rhythm of her sentences still echoing in his ears.

She hadn’t just revealed truths. She’d weaponized them, sharpened them into blades that now hung in the air, slicing through the fragile facade of the station. He imagined the chaos unfolding on the other side of her microphone—Crawford’s voice, raw and furious, barking orders; the panicked scurrying of technicians trying and failing to regain control. It was the kind of pandemonium Declan had seen countless times in his own career, though rarely so publicly.

Publicly, people called him the 'Irish Wolfhound'. The moniker stuck for good reason—he was relentless, tenacious, and unyielding in the chase. But Cassandra? She wasn’t hunting like he did.

She was circling, sharp-eyed and calculating, waiting for the exact moment to strike.

He exhaled sharply, breaking his stillness as though the weight of realization had settled more deeply over him.

Her voice wasn’t just a broadcast. Cassandra was declaring war.

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

Rupert considered the question for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though pondering a move on a chessboard.

“Oh, they’ll arrest her,” he said, his voice laced with certainty, “Crawford won’t let something like this slide. He can’t afford to.”

Declan, leaning against the counter, let his arms fold loosely across his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

“She’s forced their hand,” Declan said, his tone calm but deliberate, “He’ll want to make an example of her—show everyone what happens when you push too hard.”

Rupert hummed thoughtfully, folding his paper with deliberate care and resting his hands on it, as if weighing something unseen. There was an unspoken suspicion behind his narrowed gaze as he studied Declan—a sharpness that cut into the quiet space between them.

Rupert’s gaze flicked to Declan, a subtle spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“And yet,” Rupert began, his words slow and deliberate, “you don’t sound like someone who thinks she’s in over her head.”

Declan’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s not,” he said simply.

Declan’s gaze set over the radio, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. The static-filled silence that followed Cassie’s broadcast had settled over the room, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the weight of it, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her words.

It wasn’t just what she’d said—though that had been sharp enough to leave a mark—it was how she’d said it. There was precision in her delivery, the kind of unyielding conviction that struck a nerve. Declan knew that tone. It was the sound of someone who’d spent too long being told to sit down and shut up, finally deciding they’d had enough.

He sipped his now-lukewarm coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as Taggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“You sound like you admire her,” she teased, her smile faint but knowing as she turned back to her bowl.

Declan gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk half-formed.

“I don’t know her,” he replied, his tone light but carefully neutral, “Hard to admire someone you’ve never met.”

Taggie’s laugh was soft, her focus returning to her batter, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be impressed.”

Rupert chuckled quietly, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

“Oh, he’s impressed, all right,” he said smoothly, casting Declan a sly look, “Rarely seen the Wolfhound so quiet after hearing someone on the air.”

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

“She’s reckless,” he said, his voice steady, as if stating an undeniable fact, “That kind of move doesn’t just burn bridges; it torches the whole damn village.”

“And you respect that,” Rupert countered, leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes glinting.

Declan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his coffee down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink of the mug against the counter punctuating the silence. His thoughts churned, though he wouldn’t have admitted it outright. There was a spark to her, something raw and untamed that he hadn’t expected.

He’d seen plenty of people with ambition—had worked alongside them, had watched them rise and fall, often under the weight of their own egos. But Cassie’s drive didn’t seem rooted in vanity or ambition for its own sake. It was sharper than that. Purposed.

She reminded him of someone—maybe himself, years ago, when he still believed in tearing down the walls instead of navigating them.

“Reckless doesn’t mean wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Rupert tilted his head, watching him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

Declan ignored him, his thoughts still circling. Cassie Jones. Freddie’s niece, apparently. That explained part of it—Freddie was nothing if not sharp-tongued and stubborn. But there was more to her, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet. She wasn’t just loud or brash; she was precise, deliberate, and unafraid to be messy if it meant getting to the truth.

He could still hear her voice, cutting through the static with an unshakable conviction. It wasn’t easy to pull that off—to sound angry and controlled at the same time. It took skill.

Talent, he corrected himself silently.

“Think she’ll stay in Rutshire after this?” Taggie asked, her tone light, though her curiosity was evident.

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If she’s smart, she won’t,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “Crawford will make sure she’s blacklisted. She’ll have to find somewhere else to land.”

And yet, as he said it, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t. There was something compelling about her fight, her refusal to accept the constraints of her situation. He didn’t know what she’d do next, but he had the sense it would be something worth watching.

Declan’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. She’s not going to fade quietly, that’s for sure.

The air in the kitchen had grown heavier, the faint crackle of static from the radio fading into the background as Cassie’s voice disappeared. Declan stood by the counter, his coffee forgotten as his gaze lingered on the now-silent speakers. The energy of the room shifted, a quiet tension filling the space like the lull before a storm.

Rupert stretched his legs under the table, his smirk widening as he tilted his head to watch Declan.

“You’re planning something,” Rupert said, his tone light but knowing, “You always get that look when you’ve found a new target.”

Declan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied smoothly, lifting his coffee mug again, though he didn’t drink, “I’m just thinking.”

“About a voice you just heard on the radio,” Rupert added, teasing. Taggie glanced at him from her bowl, her hands resuming the rhythm of her whisk.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them  but didn’t respond, letting the words hang in the air.

Taggie tilted her head slightly, her whisk pausing for just a moment.

“Did you like her?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, as though she already had her own answer but wanted to hear Declan’s.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them, his expression guarded.

“I don’t even know her,” he countered, his voice calm but with a faint edge of irritation, “She’s Freddie’s niece, not a bloody headline.”

His daughter raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing. Taggie had learned long ago that her father’s defenses ran deep when it came to matters of people getting under his skin.

“Maybe not yet,” Rupert interjected, leaning forward in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement, “But she’s got the spark for it. We all heard it. She knows how to make herself heard.”

Declan didn’t respond immediately, though Rupert’s words hit him right away. He could feel them, like a distant echo, her voice still hummed in his head.

His gaze shifted briefly to the radio, now silent, as though it might still hold some faint trace of her words. He could see it—hear it again in his mind. Cassie Jones wasn’t just speaking; she was carving something from thin air, her words deliberate and measured, each one leaving an impression, like fingerprints on glass.

It had been a long time since Declan had felt this… Intrigued. Intrigued by a woman’s voice on a radio, of all things. Not just any voice either, but one that demanded attention without raising it too high.

She was clear, unwavering, the kind of person who knew what they were saying and made sure you heard it. The kind of person who didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Just shove a door and hit her feet into the ground.

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. His hands were still, but the irritation now felt more like a defense against something else, something unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

“Well, she must have locked herself in the station room to make that happen,” Declan said, his tone dry and dismissive.

He didn’t mean it; not exactly. It was just a reflex, the kind of armor he put on when people were asking too many questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But even as the words left his mouth, there was something deeper beneath them—a grudging acknowledgment of the effort, the willpower it must have taken to command that kind of attention.

To make those words land the way she did. Well, if they pressed him, he would admit he admired her indeed for being brave enough to be reckless.

Rupert smirked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who had already sized up the situation.

“And you respect that,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze didn’t waver from Declan’s face.

Declan didn’t look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on something distant, the fleeting memory of her voice still running through his mind. He could feel the tension in his chest, a strange knot that wasn’t there before.

It wasn’t anger, exactly—it was something else. Something unspoken. Something he was still trying to conceive.

“She’s got something,” Declan muttered, his tone quieter now, almost reflective. The words tasted different in his mouth than they did when he first said them, no longer a dismissal but something closer to recognition. There was a shift in him, something subtle but undeniable.

“And you respect that,” Rupert repeated, his smirk softening into something more genuine. There was no mocking tone now, just the faintest trace of admiration—something Declan could sense without needing it spelled out for him.

Declan finally met Rupert’s gaze, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of something new in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them spoke volumes.

Cassie Jones wasn’t just another voice on the radio. That was a fact.

And for the first time in a long while, Declan wasn’t sure what to do with that.

[offside-the-lines]

Safe Sex Resource

A lot of the time, in our writings online, we don’t always show our characters practicing safe sex (whether for narrative flow or other reasons) and will just add in our author’s notes to practice safe sex in your real life. It can be hard to find good and concise information online so I have compiled this for authors to link in their notes. I recommend everyone take a look, there might be something in here you didn't already know.

This post is largely inspired by @fakejuly who shared a lot of their knowledge and advice from their years in the sw industry, and from my own experience creating curriculums for and teaching sex & relationship education.

I have tried to make it as inclusive as possible, please let me know if you have any feedback. If you spot something I missed, please let me know. I will be updating this periodically. My inbox is also always open if you have any questions/concerns/etc.

Last update: Jan 16, 2024

wrap it up

"Condoms prevent STIs and pregnancy in the vast majority of cases, when used correctly." 

Using a condom correctly and consistently can increase its efficacy from 87% to 98%. Most surveyed individuals are not using it correctly or consistently so make sure you are well-informed. We hear this all the time, but what does “used correctly” actually mean?

Familiarize yourself with the steps.

Using the right size: if it's too big, it can slide off or leak; if it's too small, it can break or come off. Condoms usually come in 5 sizes (there are options like MyONE that have 52 sizes).

Condoms can be damaged by heat. They should be kept somewhere cool (not in wallets, or sat on in back pockets, or kept in your glovebox). They also have an expiry date. 

Sex can also lead to friction (heat) so condoms should be changed between activities and after about 15 minutes of any vigorous activity.

Never double up (i.e. wearing two condoms or using both an external and an internal condom).

Use lube 100% of the time (except oral sex), even if you think you don't need it, even for "lubricated" condoms (the lube mainly stops it sticking to itself). Lube should be applied to the outside, but a drop in the tip of the condom before putting it on is also a good idea.

NEVER use oil-based lube or any type of oil (e.g. lotion, vaseline, coconut oil). Water based lube is the best option. Silicone based lube can be good for sex in water (e.g. shower, pool, bath) or providing more sustaining slip, but be careful near your sex toys (more on this later).

Penetrative partners should hold the base of the condom when they pull out immediately after they ejaculate so the condom doesn't leak or come off as the penis gets flaccid.

For oral sex (vulval or anal), you should use a barrier. You can make one out of a condom. (There are also companies like Loral that make latex “underwear” that have great sensation transfer and are a very good barrier for AFAB individuals).

Sharing sex toys: Most of the sex toy safety recommends "don't share them ever" which unfortunately is impractical for some people.

If more than one person is going to use the toy (within a session or between different sessions), use a condom.

Condoms are often coated in a thin layer of silicone lube. This can react with low-quality silicone toys - there are unlubricated condoms for those - but higher-quality (platinum cured) silicone should be fine. When in doubt, spot test on the base of the toy.

As with above, always use water-based lube. 

Condoms have not been proven to protect you from mold that the toy may be harboring or toxic chemicals from low-quality materials (e.g. jelly toys).

prevention is the best cure

Due to the variable efficacy of condoms, for individuals where pregnancy is a concern, it is recommended to also be using the pill, injection, IUD, etc.

Condoms (internal or external) are the only prevention for STIs. This isn't meant to be stressful - the most common STIs are treatable and often curable (more on this later).

STIs can be transmitted via fluids AND skin contact, so use condoms when you’re engaging in oral sex, hand stuff or sharing sex toys, in addition to penetrative sex.

STIs can be transmissible via any of your fluid membranes, that includes your mouth, throat, nose, and eyes.

Condoms are extremely effective against HIV, and reasonably effective against chlamydia and gonorrhea. Contracting chlamydia and gonorrhea is not the end of the world, it is curable with antibiotics but you can also be asymptomatic.

Condoms aren’t as effective at preventing herpes (symptomatically will manifest as open sores) and HPV (symptomatically will manifest as genital warts). 

Everyone who is able to should get the HPV vaccine, regardless of gender or sexuality. HPV is the most common STI. Most cases resolve on their own within 2 years, but for those that don’t, it can lead to cancers of the cervix, vagina, vulva, penis, anus and throat. Almost all cervical cancers are caused by HPV. The vaccine is extremely effective.

Even if you believe you have been safe and are asymptomatic, get tested regularly. At least once a year. (Even if you are in a long term monogamous relationship).

In summary:

Try your best to be safe but in real life, shit happens, so at least stick to these three things: 1) know your safety boundaries prior to sex and don't change them for anybody, 2) talk/ask about STI status before anything begins, and 3) get tested regularly.

CONSENT IS MANDATORY.

Communication is what makes sex good. Talking about sex is sexy. :) 

[stringsnwires]

Also, I feel like you’d have strong opinions about legos. Discuss, if you wish.

Sure, I have some opinions. I had me a few sets as a boy, but I never did nothin' by the book. Which was kinda stupid. That's the whole appeal. But I liked it better to tinker with them n my own mechanics.

The only thing that I have to say that matters is that those things are a work of geniuses. Lookie:

LEGOs ain't been changed in the 40 sumn years they been around. All have been made with CA (Cellulose Acetate), and were recently changed to ABS (Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene) for the foreseeable future. They changed from something that was easy to deform to a damn near impenetrable little brick toy. I mean, don't set one under a hydraulic press or nun, but for a kid? That feller can pass that set down to his boy and the boy after him and it ain't gonna be changed.

So, not only have they found the ultimate material for strength, but also an excellent one for molding. They heat ABS up reaaal hot, then inject it into these into these precision-engineered molds under high pressure to get all them crevices. N when I say precision-engineered, I mean it to the extreme. The tolerance ain't more than 5 measly microns. For a toy? That's no error at all. They're identical! They're cooled all rapidly to maximize efficiency. Won't crack or nothin. I'm talkin' seconds!

They're also recycled to make more bricks when them or their smart 'bots detect an anomaly.

I don't know how they color em real well. But it's all precise n accurate n seamless.

Y'all know that click when y'all put em together? Intentional. It ain't no LEGO brick without it. Hooo. Them's are perfect little things. Only thing I'd wanna be a boy for again.

Maybe y'all already knew all that.

[tsisisail]

what kinds of phobias do you think the drawtectives have? I was thinking about it earlier because I think eugene would be a little afraid of the dark and I want to know your take :)

Ah I was just thinking about this earlier! Perfect timing

Usually I start these with Rosé, but I’ll do Eugene since you brought him up.

Eugene is, indeed, afraid of the dark to me. He has to sleep with a light on which seriously messes with his brain’s melatonin production.

I also feel he’d be afraid of doctors and hospitals due to a poor medical history. (I made an entire head canon post about this.

I also think he’d be afraid of car crashes, them being one of the most common causes of death he encounters people who died in one particularly frequently.

Rosé is afraid of needles. I’m personally a trans woman Rosé truther and believe she’d take E pills for this reason rather than injections. This is also why her ears aren’t pierced. She doesn’t admit this fear though, she thinks it makes her sound silly.

She also generally has a fear of being “found out”, being a rather secretive person. She keeps a lot to herself and the idea of people just knowing stuff about her before she’s ready for them to is really upsetting to her.

Jancy, being rather perceptive, has figured out a lot about her anyway, and chooses not to reveal too much of this as to not make her uncomfortable.

Grendan is afraid of the decompositional process just, as a concept. They understand it’s a part of nature and such, but it just squicks them out. When you die the other stuff eats you? No thank you! Don’t want that! This fear also extends to them being really grossed out by mold.

In spite of being rather outdoorsy she has a lot of issues with centipedes specifically. Most bugs are fine but if a centipede gets near him he’s leaving then and there.

York, aside from the obvious, isn’t really afraid of much. There aren’t many problems he has that he can’t just punch, and if he can’t punch it he’s generally accepting of that.

He’s really just afraid of what all the drawtectives are afraid of to a certain extent, and that’s things going back to the way they were before they had each other. It’s sort of unfathomable to them collectively where they’d be without each other, but they do understand that it wouldn’t be anywhere they’d be proud of.

But York doesn’t really like thinking about hypotheticals like that. He’d prefer to focus on the more tangible, punchable problems in front of him.

.. Oh, and he’s claustrophobic.

Jancy is a generally level headed woman, but she does have a healthy fear of the ocean and drowning, (as I’d assume most people do.)

Fire also gets to her, and suffocation. Generally morbid causes of death such as these are mainly what she’s afraid of, although this is only notable because her children seem to exhibit no fear of death regardless of cause (unless, for some reason, the cause is a cat boy in a mascot costume.) They’ll just stumble merrily through the saw trap that is life whilst giving her heart palpitations.

[thegamingcatmom]

Anon making way through resi8 for miri

Heisenbergs factory looked cool as heck in a creepy dystopian kind of way, like the background design is just so cool

Watched the whole heisenberg showdown and still can't believe Ethan got that...tank not tank? vehicle

Miri showed up and just ripped his heart out wtf? And then she just crushed his heart and sprinkled it over herself like...what???(birb mama just looked extra insane) also her just summoning birbs in front of her???

Also like that can't just be it for Ethan right? He can't be dead??? He...he gotta go save rose!

Now I'm in chris? Pov? Watching what happening next

Yeah, Heisenberg's place is just so grotesque and eerie. Especially when Sturm (his propeller creation) chases you. It gives you chills and I love that. 🥰

He´s creating an army in hopes it would defeat Miranda btw. Seeing this gif - all the bodies and the machinery (that he´s no doubt invented himself) - really makes you wonder how long he´s been planning this for. Like, either he somehow obtained ppl from outside the village, or all of these are villagers from different time periods. Yknow, like-

"Keep the birth rate high, ensure endless supply."

- Heisenberg, at some point (probably)

Miranda "sampled his blood for later," so I think that means she kinda absorbed his DNA/info or smt? Because she was like "bound for eternity in blood" in reference to the bond with her reincarnated daughter. So, maybe, consuming Ethan's blood would ensure that? Maybe that's her way of taking in someone's essence? I mean, she had to get Mia's DNA in order to impersonate her, so I reckon she's done that by consuming her blood too??

The fact that this is Miranda casually slapping Ethan´s hand away like some pesky fly and going like "NUH-UH, hands off, mister" DOES THINGS TO ME LIKE-

PLS COOK FOR ME AND SLAP ME, I BEG YOU. 😭

...Pretty pls? 👉👈

ASDFNALSJDFNSAKSJBF

.

Imma have to read up some stuff again because, as I've also read today, Miranda was actually an actual scientist/biologist before she got infected?? (I´m sure I knew that at some point, lol.) I´m still in the middle of my 2nd playthrough, so that´s probs some info you get at the very end of the game and I would´ve stumbled upon it regardless. But like, all this knowledge and expertise she has didn´t come from the Megamycete. She was already very intelligent and a more than capable scientist/biologist, and the Megamycete took it to the extreme, kinda.

I also remember there being some sick concept art/artwork in the credits that shows her infecting the villagers by injecting the Cadou directly. There was a father with his sick/dying daughter seeking a "cure" and Miranda was only all too happy to "help" ofc. I mean, we all know she gained the villagers´ trust by pretending to be some saint/godsent, but seeing that concept art really puts into perspective just how cunning Miranda is.

Here´s the artwork, btw:

SHE´S SO...UGH. 😭🫠

The birds she summons are actually her own. Like, she frequently turns into a murder of crows for quick travelling or, as we see here, to descent on her enemies. Though, it was less an attack and more a form taunting with Ethan, let´s be honest.

...I mean, yall can´t tell me she isn´t cackling like a hyena on the inside here. 😭😭😭

.

.

.

I saw you´ve sent me another ask, so I´ll leave it at that. 😉

OH, btw:

After you defeat Sal, you get a crank with which you can lower the bridge near the ceremony site. This leads you to a boat which you can use to get some extra stuff (like Lady D´s treasure), and also more info on the mold and Miranda´s agenda. You get to see the cave in which Miranda intended to commit suicide after her daughter´s death. The cave where she accidently discovered the mold. The cave that started it all, basically. And literally.

Like, I´m not just talking about Village, seeing as Umbrella (the pharmaceutical company that specializes in the creation of bioweapons) only exists because Miranda saved Oswell E. Spencer after a skiing accident. This was in the early 1950s and only possible because Miranda had been infected by the mold, making her immortal basically, and-

...ANYWAY-

Should you ever play the game yourself, I highly recommend revisiting some places after you´ve defeated each lord because there might be some new stuff to collect and discover. The map kinda changes a bit each time, you could say. Especially Luiza´s place. 😉

Thanks for your ask! 💋

[kashi-prompts]

Flowers for a Shinobi

Chapter 17: An Offering

Word Count: 2,315

Pairing: Kakashi x OFC

Previous Chapter ❀ Archive of Our Own Link ❀

A/N: Next chapter already written and coming this week. I am a puddle.

❀❀❀

"Stop moving," a blond-haired woman spat, needle balanced in hand as she gripped the teenager's arm. The young boy grimaced, feeling the arduous sensation of a thin needle sliding under his skin and sticking his vein.

"Gosh," the woman sighed, shaking her head as the pinprick began to bleed. She grabbed some gauze, pressing it onto the intravenous needle as the boy squirmed again. She shook her head, her greasy blond hair falling into her face.

"Okay, listen," she sat up, her tone disgruntled and impatient, "I don't care if this is your first time. You need to settle."

"Is there a problem, Niko?" The woman looked over her shoulder, and a slim, green-eyed man stared down at her. She rolled her eyes at him, shrugging his hand off her shoulder.

"It's fine," she replied, turning back to the boy, "take the chakra bag over to the seating area. You'll be there for twenty minutes. Take the needle out when you're done and throw it away -"

"But isn't that-?"

"Just do it," Niko replied in exasperation, waving her hand, "and get back to work."

The boy feebly stood from his seat, shuffling himself over to a line of pallid individuals sitting uncomfortably in chairs. They all held a similar plastic bag of a glowing blue liquid, the essence emptying directly into their veins as they stared blankly ahead. Each one looked more tired than the last; their eyes were worn, and their muscles thin and weak.

Niko shook her head at the boy, ignoring the man as he hovered behind her, watching her movements. 

"Next!" she called to the line of workers forming, queuing for their daily chakra intake.

"Niko," the man pressed, "we have to talk."

"Do you want me to get these people hooked up or not?"

The man exhaled, "fine. But come see me in the warehouse when you're done."

"Whatever," she picked up another unsanitary needle, a box of plastic bags filled with the blue liquid at her feet.

The man left the woman's side, walking through the unkempt space they had hastily built into an infirmary. Despite Daichi not being by his side, the group's pursuit to reach one goal had seemingly come to fruition. Their grandiose vision had grown into the enterprise the man had always dreamt of.

The man climbed a set of rickety metal stairs, his stiff leg limping behind him as he finally reached the top. Leaning over the metal catwalk, his sharp eyes looked down at his creation in the humid climate of the warehouse.

Hundreds of men and women knelt before garden boxes, their hands pressed to the soil as sprouts of blossoms gradually rose from the dirt. Sweat flowed from their faces, their complexions ashen and weak. Despite such, the man felt satisfied.

The people of the Lotus village had always wanted to mold chakra like the Hana clan could, producing a quick income for themselves instead of waiting for the seasons to turn. The Aki Barra had finally made the people of the Lotus' dreams a reality, injecting them with high levels of chakra and showing them how to infuse it into seeds. This allowed each packet of seeds to grow faster. This was what the village's citizens had wanted, wasn't it?

The money had finally begun pouring in last month with the spike in chakra gain. The system the man had established of growing a Tsukamu root at critical locations for shinobi to pass through seemed to work, especially near the Sand village. There was no way enough Iyasu flowers could be produced to stop the Tsukamu root from draining those Sand shinobi dry. The numbers had even surprised him. It was a bold strategy, but it had played out exactly how he had hoped. His freckled lips curled slightly. 

Below him, he watched as a young girl stood from her workspace, holding her head. He gazed down at her curiously, watching her sink to her knees. Commotion quickly flared around her, frantic chatters disrupting the workflow as the group tried to aid the young woman.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing? Get back to work!" the man stood straight, his hand gripping the metal guardrail of the catwalk, "Saito! Take care of her."

"Yes, Sama," an elderly man knelt beside the girl, her hand shaking as she cradled her face. Leaning back against the railing, the man shook his head in disdain. 

"Where are the rest of the chakra bags?" Niko interrupted his thoughts, standing at the top of the metal stairs. He turned his head, his eyebrow lifted.

"Did you check the repository?"

Niko scoffed, "What kind of an idiot do you take me for?"

"And there are none left?" The man's eyebrows narrowed, an uneasiness rising in his chest. The blond shook her head, her arms crossed over her chest as she tapped her foot impatiently.

Quickly, the man pushed her aside, his feet stumbling down the stairs as fast as he could manage. Slamming the warehouse door open, he trudged through the rain and mud to their original hideout. His chest tightened as he grunted open the hatch door, sliding down the ladder to the dust-filled cellar.

His eyes quickly landed on the row of meticulously placed glass vials. Each one empty. The tubes coming down from the ceiling were dry, blue chakra remnants coating the chutes that had a constant flow of blue coursing through them just yesterday. 

A curse fell from his lips.

❀❀❀

Ayame rubbed her eyes, fatigue gnawing at her bones as she stared at the corked ceiling tiles. Was time moving? The morning daybreak outside her window told her yes, but her day's steady, unchanging activities tricked her mind.

Groaning, she lifted herself up to her elbows, her body stiff and weak. Her stomach twisted in hunger, another reminder of the liquid diet she had been placed on until further notice. The IV in the crook of her elbow was an uncomfortable sensation at every movement. Irritation dug into her; she wanted to rip it out. 

It had been six days since the greenhouse incident, three since she had woken up, and one since she had even been able to sit up on her own. The world outside her tiny hospital room continued on as she recuperated. Her mind was a constant carousel of thoughts, the same themes coming back to plague her.

Almost constantly, she fixated on the Sand shinobi she had been entrusted with saving. Yamato and Sakura had notified her that most of the shinobi were recuperating well, the vast quantity of Iyasu flowers she had produced now being kept as a backup in case more fell ill. Still, there was something about the whole ordeal that caused an uneasiness to rise in her chest. Who was behind it? And would it happen again? Would she be strong enough to do it again? When would this all end?

Her restlessness grew, pulling the sheets off her legs as she looked out the window. She had completed her mission by the skin of her teeth, narrowly avoiding death if not for Kakashi's quick efforts.

Kakashi. Another fixation, she thought to herself. Her mind roamed shamefully back to the Jonin, an old familiar feeling tugging at her at the thought of him. 

"If you had gotten here a moment later, we're not sure you would have made it, Hana-chan," she was told after finally regaining consciousness, "You should be appreciative of Hatake-sama's quick actions to get you here once he realized how dire the situation was."

Of course, she was appreciative, she thought. She was thankful for everything he had done for her. But his actions were no different than anyone else's, right? Everything could be explained away, she believed tirelessly, from her training having been only an assignment to saving a fellow comrade being a duty and obligation. In some moments, it was clear he was not interested in a relationship with her. And yet other moments - ?

"Kakashi-sensei wouldn't leave your side," Sakura had recounted the day she and Yamato had left to return to Konoha, her voice a piqued whisper, "He was adamant about someone watching over you in case you woke up." 

Watching over me, Ayame thought now, blinking as she looked over at the empty seat adjacent to her. Where was he now? She wondered. Ever since she had woken up, his visits were brief. He never had much to say, but his gaze always appeared to linger a beat longer than usual.

Shaking her head, she bit her lip in frustration. He had to be the most complicated man she had ever met. 

She growled lowly as she moved her arm, feeling the tape from the IV tug at her skin once more. Frustration welled up in her as she forced her legs over the side of the bed. She needed to start moving, she thought. She couldn't just lay here anymore, withering away. 

With arms braced against the mattress, she slowly lifted herself to her feet, her legs wobbling below her. She gritted her teeth as her muscles tensed quickly, forcing her to stumble forward. Her hand groped the air in the frantic moment, searching for a solid surface to catch herself. 

"Hey, woah," her chest fell against a sturdy forearm, swiftly catching her before she could even process what had happened. 

"What are you doing?" She heard a familiar voice ask her, his hand gripping her ribs as he held her up. 

"I can't stand laying in this damn bed anymore," she replied quickly, shaking her head. Her breath caught in her throat, feeling the proximity of his hand to the side of her chest. His palm was hot against the thin fabric of her hospital gown. Her cheeks reddened as she tried to stand, her knees quivering from the weight she had put on them. 

Lifting her head, her eyes met his, and she felt her body go rigid. His single exposed eye looked down at her, his usual sleepy gaze softening as her hair fell gently over her face. She felt like time stood still, pausing for only them as she placed her hand on his chest. His grip tightened at her side as she watched his lips fall open behind his mask. Heat slid up her back as his eye settled on her lips. 

"Ayame, I-" she barely heard him say, his voice trailing off as his eye skimmed over her freckled cheeks. 

Blood rushed through her ears, roaring as the heart rate monitor behind her beeped incessantly, a distant sound to both. 

"Everything okay in here?" a tall nurse poked her head from behind the curtain, no doubt being notified by the machine's erratic behavior. "Oh, I'm sorry-"

The two flushed furiously, falling away quickly. Ayame found it in her own strength to reseat herself in her bed. Kakashi shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling awkwardly at the nurse.

"Everything alright?" the nurse asked uncertainly, her eyes flickering between the two with perched eyebrows. 

"Yes, fine," Ayame replied curtly, staring down at her hands. They shook in her lap, her skin still on fire. 

"Alright, well, I'll be back later to check on you," the nurse replied, sliding the curtain across the room. The two remained silent, unsure of what to say or do. There was no denying what had happened. The midmorning sun had easily illuminated the blush that crept from behind his mask moments ago, the image causing her to bite her lip. 

"I should get going, too," Kakashi finally said, his voice sounding strained. Ayame looked up, watching him walk across the room. She could see the tips of his ears were pink. Her lips fell open, wanting to ask him to stay, but she couldn't find the words. Instead, she picked at the skin of her finger, a frown on her lips. 

And there it was, another difficult moment she could not explain. She could hardly recall the interaction, only reflecting on the feeling of his large hands on her side and their close proximity. And what was he going to say to her? The way he said her name, a sigh upon his lips, something she had never heard before. Her heart raced in her chest as she recounted the moment again. 

There was a knock at the door, breaking her away from her thoughts. She quickly looked up, surprised to see Kakashi again standing in her doorway. Had he come back to say what he couldn't before? Or maybe he would - 

"Here," She looked down at a tattered book in his hand, holding it between them in an offering. She narrowed her eyebrows, looking up at him. She had barely ever seen a leisurely moment without this book in his hands. 

"It'll keep your mind off things while you recover," he told her, their gazes intentionally not meeting. Slowly, she took the book from his grasp, feeling its tattered pages against her fingertips as she looked it over. A smile lifted at the corners of her lips. 

"Thank you," she said quietly, her heart thumping again behind her ribcage. She bit her lip, taming a wild smile as she sunk into her sheets. She considered the thoughtful gesture, a compliment forming on her tongue, as she finally lifted her gaze only to find an empty space where he once stood. 

Still, her face burned like an adolescent. Her eyes fell to the book, her fingertips sliding over the cover as she thought of him. Maybe he did...? 

She turned the book over in her hands, noticing something wedged between the pages towards the novel's end. She slid a thumb between the pages, pulling them apart. 

Her body stilled, her lips parting slightly as the lavender sprig she had given him fell gently into her lap. 

[akittysuki]

They created a monster and blamed me for becoming one

Sorry this is my first fan fiction so I’m sorry if it’s absolutely dog ass. You can read this on Ao3 just look up my user Akittysuki14

Warnings: violence, swearing, gore

you awoke in a cold damp cell, you have never been so cold in her life, the air was to damp and fridged. The little clothes you had on did nothing to block out the frozen air, you could hear you teeth chattering echo in the cell. Where were you? You had no memory of getting here. You were just back on your way to the orphanage from school before everything went black. Was this some prank? Was the boys from her orphanage trying to make fun of you again for never having a chance to get a family. You were always different than the other kids you would admit to that but you always thought there was always the smallest chance that somebody somewhere would want you.

you pushed those thoughts into the back of your mind. You took a look around your cell nothing to special. A window that barley let in any light but let into much cold air. A bucket in the corner for your business and a small cot with the thinnest blanket, no enough to get you warm or stay warm. The cell smelt like mold and sewage. You knew somehow someway you where gonna be here for a long time that this was going to be your new home. no comforts, no blankets, no books, no nothing. Just you and your cell with a damn near empty bed that was a damn rock with a single sheet. This cage was going to be your life and this cage was gonna be your hell.

You knew you’ve been in the cell for years, being pulled out by masked man in suits to protect themselves as if you were a virus always having a gun pointed to your back. One wrong move and they shoot, you’ve had to learn that lesson multiple times. You were a lab rat, but you weren’t the only one. From what you could tell most of the people here were orphans from all over the world many from the americas, Europe, Asia, the Middle East but never any from their own country. I think it’s to assume that they didn’t want you to know what they were doing. If you couldn’t speak their language you couldn’t fight back as much. You knew the others didn’t speak a lick of Russian, neither can you but you did pick on some that was bound to happen. “Sit, stay, move, etc.” just the basics they allow.

They called you 23614 they didn’t care for your actual name they never cared to asked or seem to want to ask. Day after day they would inject you with something that would course through your bloodstream like lava making you scream and writhe around only thing keeping you still was the straps holding you down. Vladimir talsov was the man you feared. Talsov always enjoyed what he did, he loved hurting people and experimenting on them.

“Ah yes (y/n) welcome back, ready for another round?” Talsov said with a smirk on his face. “No please, please I can’t do this anymore it hurts!!! IT BURTS TO MUCH” you screamed. “ just as I intended darling, you’re the only one that’s been able to handle this better then the others. Your special, you are gonna be the to complete my expiration that I’ve been doing do 56 years. Body after body none have been able to handle it but you my dear are going to be the one I can feel it in my soul” he laughed “Fuck you, you have no fucking soul you monster” you screeched your voice cracking. “That may be true, but I am finally going to create my master piece after all these years and I am going to make sure you are the best thing that has ever been created! I will make you the strongest thing to walk this earth even if it means I have to break and kill you over and over to do so!” His eyes shown with a light of a mad man. You knew that he was right you’ve been here for years and he was going to make sure that you would be here for more. Made sure that you were what he has always wanted to create.

He had his men come in and made sure that your straps were tightened correctly making sure you wouldn’t be able to escape. You were unable to move an inch of your body and were only forced to watch as talsov got his station ready for you. All you could see was the tray he rolled over with all the tool he was going to use on you. So many sharp objects, vials with unknown substances. This was going to hurt worse then anything he’s done to yo hand you knew it. He was excited for it, he was humming underneath his breath in Russian. “ Did you know that I used to fight a war?” He stated directly at you asking with a grin. “I don’t care what war just do what you have to and FUCKING KILL ME TALSOV!!” You were screaming and writhing in your restraints, you were scared and tired of this you just wanted it to end, you were desperate for it to end willing to do anything. “Oh but I won’t do that dear, you see when I was a young boy I was giving a type of freedom no other man has gotten. You see I was allowed to experiment on thousands and do just about anything to them as long as one they died or two they became a weapon. You see most of them died the Jews you see there was always an abundance of them and us nazis well were damn near allowed to do anything to them. You see I had a deal with a man a very important man you might say one of the most important and powerful men during this time. If I were to created the most powerful weapon in the world I would be considered one of the best scientists of my generation. My face and name would never be forgotten but by the time I was getting somewhere the war was over and I was forced to go into hiding and my research slowed a bit so I made a deal with the Russians” he said as he was preparing his vials for ejections.

“I was willing to never have my name mentioned in the books as long as I was able to continue, why would I go this far to not finish by work hmmm? At the end of the day my name doesn’t matter but my master piece does and that master piece has finally after years of trying and failing over and over it has finally been found. You my dear are going to be my master piece and you will always remember my name.” He laughed manically. “What are you going to do to me this time talsov?, what sick plan do you have now to make me your strongest weapon, you sick fuck!” You were screaming terrified to what was to come. “ after 56 years I have finally created the serum to create the ultimate weapon but don’t worry dear this is going be the worst pain your going to endure” he grabbed the syringe and filled it up with the substance the tube was glowing it was almost a spiderweb of colors black, pink, purple and blue it was constantly shifting like it was alive. When he sucked up the contents into the syringe the substance seem to get aggressive like it was alive, you knew that this, this thing was going to change you as a human being.

He grabbed your arm and injected it he pushed it in slow and the pain, you couldn’t even fathom the pain can’t even begin to explain the pain it felt like something was crawling inside your blood vessels attaching itself to every part of your being. A thing hiding inside of you making you it’s vessel. It felt like it’s class were made of razor blades cutting and flowing into the cuts and burning it’s way into them and then healing them and repeating it over and over again. Your screams were echoing off the wall, you were screaming so loud you could see talsov cover his ears. You could taste blood, feel blood you were bleeding from your eyes, ears, both and mouth. You were decomposing and being rebuilt over and over. The pain was too much and you blacked out the last thing you saw was talksovs smile of pure joy. You knew that he had finally created his masterpiece.

(Sorry I’m quite new to writing and I don’t mean to offend anyone with the mention of Jews or nazis. I apologize if I have and I have to admit I’m not the best writer so my grammar is bound to be terrible)

[plasticinjectionmolds]

Aerospace and automotive industries are manufactured by using blow mold design

The incorporation of Plastic injection mold moulding is the most prevalent procedure for producing plastic components, and it is a rising segment of the plastics industry. Plastic injection moulding is a quick procedure that produces huge quantities of the same plastic product in a short period of time. Nowadays, materials such as thermoplastic, thermoset, elastomer, and/or metal are employed (s). Injection molding near me are being replaced in plastic manufacture by high-performance polymers that can endure high temperatures. Plastic injection moulding is widely utilised in the manufacturing of plastic products ranging from medical equipment to toys. Many parts in the aerospace and automotive industries are manufactured by using blow mold design and plastic injection moulding. Take a time to take in your surroundings.

[mjmyrajain]

Top High Quality Office furniture Manufacturers and Office furniture in near me

Are you ready to upgrade your office space and take it from drab to fab? Look no further than the masterminds behind the scenes – the office furniture manufacturers! These wizards of design and functionality have devoted their lives to crafting pieces that not only enhance productivity but also exude style. With a passion for creating inspiring work environments, they weave together innovative materials, sleek lines, and ergonomic features like magic. From elegant executive desks that command attention to versatile modular seating arrangements that adapt effortlessly to any meeting, these manufacturers offer a smorgasbord of options tailored to suit every taste and requirement.

Looking to revamp your workspace? Look no further than "Office Furniture Manufacturers near Me"! This incredible hub of creativity and craftsmanship is where office dreams come to life. Picture this: sleek ergonomic chairs that cradle you like a gentle embrace, desks so stylish they make productivity feel effortless, and storage solutions that effortlessly blend functionality with aesthetics. Office Furniture Manufacturers Near Me understand the importance of creating an environment conducive to success, where every piece of furniture tells a story of innovation and professionalism.

With their unparalleled attention to detail and commitment to quality, these manufacturers have mastered the art of blending comfort and style into one seamless package. So why settle for ordinary when you can surround yourself with extraordinary? Embark on a journey towards a dynamic workplace by exploring the endless possibilities offered by Office Furniture Manufacturers near me today!

Best Office furniture Manufacturers in Delhi, Faridabad, Noida, Gurgaon and Ghaziabad

Looking to jazz up your workspace? Look no further than the vibrant and bustling city of Delhi, where a plethora of innovative and trend-setting Office Furniture Manufacturers in Delhi await your creative vision. These manufacturers are not just ordinary suppliers; they are artisans who weave magic with their skilled hands, transforming mundane office spaces into contemporary havens of productivity and style. With an infectious energy that resonates through every piece they create, these manufacturers bring forth a kaleidoscope of options for you to choose from.

From sleek ergonomic chairs that mold perfectly to your body's contours, ensuring hours of comfortable work, to chic modular desks designed to optimize space while exuding elegance, there is something for every taste and preference. The quality craftsmanship displayed by these manufacturers is unparalleled - each item meticulously crafted using only the finest materials available in the market. So whether you're looking for bold statement pieces or understated classics, rest assured that these Office Furniture Manufacturers in Delhi will fulfill all your desires and elevate your workspace game to new heights!

Looking to transform your bland and uninspiring office space into a vibrant haven of productivity? Look no further than the Office Furniture Manufacturers in Faridabad! These trailblazers of design and functionality will revolutionize your workplace, injecting it with an electrifying energy that inspires creativity and collaboration. With their innovative approach to crafting furniture, they effortlessly merge style with utility, ensuring every piece fits seamlessly into your unique vision. From sleek executive desks that scream professionalism to ergonomic chairs that cradle you in comfort throughout those demanding workdays, these manufacturers have thought of it all. 

Looking to transform your dull and lifeless office into a vibrant and inspiring space? Look no further than the incredible world of Office Furniture Manufacturers in Noida! These innovative geniuses are like wizards, conjuring up fabulous creations that effortlessly blend style, functionality, and durability. From sleek executive desks that exude power and authority to cozy ergonomic chairs that embrace you in comfort during those never-ending meetings, these manufacturers have it all. And let's not forget about their ingenious storage solutions – they seem to possess an uncanny ability to create cabinets and shelves with endless space for all your files and supplies while still maintaining an air of elegance. 

Looking to transform your mundane office space into a vibrant hub of productivity and style? Look no further than the dynamic realm of Office Furniture Manufacturers in Gurgaon! Get ready to immerse yourself in a world where innovation meets functionality, and aesthetics blend seamlessly with comfort. These manufacturers are the unsung heroes behind those sleek modern desks that beckon you to dive into your work with gusto. With their unparalleled expertise, they craft masterpieces that breathe life into every corner of your workspace. From luxurious ergonomic chairs that cradle you like a cloud, to modular desks that adapt effortlessly to your ever-evolving needs, these manufacturers have it all covered.

Looking for the epitome of style and functionality when it comes to office furniture? Look no further than the vibrant city of Ghaziabad, where a multitude of exceptional Office Furniture Manufacturers in Ghaziabad awaits your discovery. These manufacturing powerhouses boast an unrivaled expertise in crafting office furniture that seamlessly blends aesthetics with ergonomics. From sleek executive desks that exude sophistication to plush ergonomic chairs designed to support even the longest workdays, these manufacturers have mastered the art of creating furniture that not only enhances productivity but also elevates the overall ambiance of any workspace.

With their cutting-edge designs and meticulous attention to detail, they effortlessly cater to various business needs and preferences, ensuring every piece aligns perfectly with individual taste and interior décor choices. Stepping into a showroom filled with their creations is like entering an oasis of possibilities; you can almost feel your creativity being sparked by each thoughtfully crafted item on display. Office Furniture Manufacturers in Ghaziabad offer extraordinary solutions tailored just for you?

[montrosemolders]

Why Choose Montrose Molders for Your Injection Molding Needs?

Trying to find an injection molding manufacturer you can trust? Look no further because Montrose Molders Corp. will be there, first, as one whom you can rely on. With more than 51 injection molding machines and presses with clamp force ranging from 40 to 1,000 tons, you never lack capacity for small to large-scale projects. When you search for a plastic molder near you, here's why you should choose Montrose Molders as your go-to injection molder.

Extensive Experience

Company Background Montrose Molders brings years of experience in the industry, with a good team of experts dedicated to delivering the highest quality products. The company is a trusted contract plastics manufacturer with in-depth knowledge of the complexities involved in the injection molding process. With the knowledge and experience, the company's team ensures that projects will get done efficiently and to the required standards.

Versatile Capabilities

Another reason to make a choice of Montrose Molders is our flexible range of capabilities. Versatile injection molding equipment makes it easy for us to handle any type of material for your projects. We can supply you with detailed designs, large parts, and special materials-there's nothing that we can't achieve with our modern technology.

State-of-the-Art Technology

Injection Molding We are dedicated to investing in Montrose Molders with the newest technology - the best injection molding machinery to keep up with the competition. Our equipment is the latest and greatest, guaranteeing you the finest quality parts made to precision. Through the advanced molding technique, we can make our clients save time and costs through optimized production efficiency with minimized waste. Your best injection molder near me, if we may say so ourselves, is set apart by our inventive approach.

Custom Solutions

Every project is unique, and at Montrose Molders we are proud of the fact that we can accommodate custom solutions to help meet your individualized needs. As one of the leading plastics manufacturers, we thrive on working as partners to understand your requirements best, providing you with personalized service-from design consultation through prototyping to full-scale production. Commitment to collaboration ensures that you can be assured of the best results in your injection molding projects.

Quality Assurance

Quality is very essential in any production process; thus, Montrose Molders has emphasized on ensuring its productions meet the highest standards possible. It looks at strict control of quality on every step of its injection molding process from even as far back as development processes to the final stages of production. The company has a stiff quality assurance team that thoroughly checks each manufactured item to ensure that every item delivered not only reaches but usually surpasses industry standards. With Montrose Molders, you will be assured of working with a reliable injection molding manufacturing plant dedicated to delivering quality products.

Competitive Pricing

We also tend to provide competitive pricing aside from the quality of services so that our clients will be able to get the best value from their investment. As a contract plastics manufacturer, one of the important issues here would be to stay within budget without compromising on the quality of our products. That is why we have a clear and transparent pricing structure and cost-effective solutions that resonate with businesses of all sizes.

Customer-Centric Approach

Our clients are the basis of what we do. Injection molders like us put a great deal of importance on open communication and interaction at every step, making sure that you are properly represented at each step. A customer-centric philosophy brings our customers into contact with some source of support regarding questions they may have or concerns that arise within their project.

Final Thought

At Montrose Molders Corp., we are the trusted injection molder suppliers you need. With our years of experience, our high technology equipment, and pursuit of excellence, we can provide our clients with comprehensive injection molding services that suit their needs. Be it a small business or corporation, we have the knowledge and resources to bring your ideas to life. Contact us today for more information on the services we provide for your injection molding project and how we can help you meet your goals.

This is Reference By: - https://montrosemolders.blogspot.com/2024/10/why-choose-montrose-molders-for-your-injection-molding-needs.html

[aaasonsblog]

In the serene landscapes of Wildomar, California, where picturesque homes and thriving businesses stand as testaments to the beauty of our region, there lies a hidden hero – A. Andrews & Sons Cleaning and Restoration. Since our inception in Orange County in 1974, we have been dedicated to preserving the sanctity of homes and businesses through our unwavering commitment to excellence in mold, fire, , and water damage restoration services in Wildomar.

OUR SERVICES

·        Water Damage Restoration

When disaster strikes in the form of water damage, time is of the essence. That's why our water damage services in Wildomar are available 24/7, ensuring a swift response to your needs. Our expert team utilizes state-of-the-art technology and proprietary techniques approved by the Institute of Inspection Cleaning and Restoration Certification (IICRC) to efficiently remove water, mitigate damage, and restore your property to its former glory.

·        Emergency Water Damage Restoration:

Emergencies don't adhere to schedules, which is why our emergency water damage restoration near me services are always at your disposal. Whether it's day or night, weekday or weekend, you can count on us to be there when you need us the most.

·        Leak Repair:

Don't let a leaky pipe or water heater dampen your spirits. Our skilled technicians specialize in leak repair, including pipe leak repair, plumbing leak repair, and even emergency leak repair. With prompt and efficient service, we'll nip the problem in the bud before it has a chance to escalate.

·        Mold Restoration:

Mold can be a silent intruder, wreaking havoc on your property and your health. Our professional mold restoration services include thorough inspections and personalized removal plans, ensuring that your space is safe and sanitized long after the mold has been eradicated.

·        Fire Damage Restoration:

In the wake of a fire, the road to recovery may seem daunting. Our fire damage restoration services offer a beacon of hope, utilizing powerful truck-mounted equipment and safe cleaning techniques to restore your property and peace of mind.

·        Tile and Grout Cleaning:

Let your floors and countertops sparkle like new with our tile and grout cleaning services. Our high-pressure injection and extraction equipment guarantee a thorough clean that revitalizes your space.

·        Floor Cleaning and Polishing:

Whether it's hardwood, stone, travertine, or marble, our floor cleaning and polishing services are backed by a money-back guarantee. Trust us to restore your floors to their original luster with dazzling results.

·        Carpet and Upholstery Cleaning:

Our licensed, bonded, and insured technicians specialize in carpet and upholstery cleaning using environmentally-friendly, soap-free chemicals that are safe for your family and pets.

At A. Andrews & Sons Cleaning and Restoration, we understand that our reputation is built on more than just our services – it's built on trust, reliability, and a commitment to excellence. As a local, family-owned business, we take pride in our over 50 years of combined professional cleaning experience. When you choose us, you're not just choosing a water damage restoration contractor near me – you're choosing a partner in restoration.

CONTACT US:

So why wait? When disaster strikes, don't settle for anything less than the best. Choose A. Andrews & Sons Cleaning and Restoration for all your restoration and water damage cleanup needs in Wildomar, CA, and beyond. Contact us today to experience the difference firsthand. Your property deserves nothing less than restoration excellence – and with us, that's exactly what you'll get.

A Andrews & Sons Cleaning & Restoration 35736 Country Park Dr, Wildomar, CA 92595. (951) 724-4990

FIND US ONLINE:

Visit Our Website: https://aaasons.com/

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