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Chapter Eighty-four
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2025-12-24 14:29:02
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Craving the alpha soldier Chapter one hundred - five
Open SystemsThe world does not remember endings.It remembers pressures.Not events, not names, not conclusions—pressures applied long enough to leave a shape behind, even after the force itself is gone.Long after Arthur and Tyla cease to be anything that can be pointed to, the pressure they relieved remains absent.That absence matters.At first, it is misread.Periods of instability are blamed on lack of leadership. Commentators argue that the old days—whatever era they choose to flatten into nostalgia—were clearer, stronger, more decisive. They point to charts. To speeches. To images of people standing at podiums with conviction etched into their posture.They do not mention the cost.They rarely do.Others counter that decentralization is inefficient, that ambiguity invites exploitation, that someone must be responsible when systems fail.They are not wrong.They are simply incomplete.The argument loops for years without resolution. It becomes background noise—predictable, cycl
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter one hundred - four
Arthur povIf there is a self here, it is not arranged the way I remember.There is awareness, but it is not centered behind my eyes. There is thought, but it does not move in lines. There is memory, but it no longer insists on sequence or ownership.Still, I know myself.Not by name. By inclination.I notice balance before outcome. I notice strain before failure. I notice when something is being held together by force rather than coherence.These habits persist.If this is an after, it is not one that asks anything of me.I am not summoned.I am not assigned.That, perhaps, is the first mercy.For a long time—if duration still applies—I do nothing but observe without effort. Motion without direction. Pattern without pressure.I sense Tyla.Not as a figure.As a resonance that requires no adjustment.We are not reunited. We are not separated.We simply no longer need to account for distance.In life, I was often praised for decisiveness.It was a quality forged under necessity. Crisis
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter one hundred- three
What ContinuesThere is a temptation, after stories like this, to search for symmetry.Readers look for echoes. For proof that nothing was wasted. That the shape of the ending mirrors the beginning closely enough to justify the journey.The world does not cooperate.Time does not bend back to admire itself.What follows Arthur and Tyla is not consequence in any dramatic sense. It is not reward. It is not even causation in the way historians prefer.It is tendency.Years after the house has been repurposed and repainted—after the garden soil has been turned by unfamiliar hands—someone new lives there. A man who repairs instruments for a living. He works slowly. Not because he is careful, but because he dislikes rushing past understanding.He notices that when he grows frustrated, the room seems to give him more time. Not literally. He is not foolish. But the light falls in a way that discourages urgency. The air does not reward raised voices.He tells a friend once, half-joking, that t
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter one hounderd - two
Tyla povI do not expect to wake up.Expectation belongs to futures, and I am no longer oriented that way.What arrives instead is awareness—soft, unhurried, without edges. Not light. Not darkness. A noticing.I am not afraid.That is the first thing I registered, and it surprises me only because I was trained, once, to think fear was the correct response to thresholds. But there is no threshold here. No line crossed. Just widening.If I still had a body, I might have described this as breathing out.There is no pain. No sudden comprehension. No voice explaining anything. Whatever waits beyond effort does not feel the need to justify itself.For a while—if time still exists, which feels doubtful—I simply remain present with that.Then memory stirs.Not in sequence. Not as review. It comes the way weather once did, rolling through without asking permission.Arthur’s hands, years before they slowed. The way he used to brace his thumb against his forefinger when thinking, as if holding a
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter One hundred
What RemainsYears pass without asking permission.They do not arrive marked or announced. They accumulate the way dust does in a place you live rather than guard—slowly, invisibly, proof of habitation rather than neglect.Arthur notices it first in his hands.Not a weakness. Not pain. Just a subtle change in how long they take to warm in the mornings, how they prefer stillness after effort. He adapts without resentment. He has had practice adapting to quieter truths.Tyla notices it in memory.Not loss. Not confusion. Just a rearrangement. Some details soften, others sharpen unexpectedly. She forgets dates and remembers textures. She forgets names and remembers the weight of a particular silence from decades ago.Neither of them names this as aging.They call it continuing.They move twice more after the coast. Not from restlessness, not from necessity. From curiosity. One place inland where the winters are harsher and the people more blunt. Another farther south, where the sun insis
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter Ninety-nine
Arthur povI wake before the light.Not out of duty. Not out of habit sharp enough to cut sleep short. I wake because my body does what it does now—rises gently, without urgency, as if it trusts the day to meet it halfway.The room is dim, holding its breath between night and morning. Tyla sleeps beside me, her back warm against my arm, her breathing slow and unguarded. There was a time when I learned to catalog that sound without realizing I was doing it—measuring pace, noting irregularities, preparing myself for interruption.I don’t do that anymore.I listen the way you listen to rain when you have nowhere else to be.I slip out of bed quietly. The floor complains softly beneath my feet. I welcome the sound. It reminds me that the house is alive in the way all structures are—wearing down, shifting, accommodating.Outside, the sky is undecided. The horizon holds a pale suggestion of color, not yet brave enough to commit. The sea is restless tonight, the kind of restless that does no
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