Direct Message

I was pregnant. On my way to deliver documents to Tristan Goldberg, a flash flood struck. Desperate, I dialed his number, praying he’d answer. After a few rings, the call connected. But instead of Tristan, a woman’s voice answered. "Tristan, whose number is this? Do you want to answer it?" There was a brief pause, and then Tristan’s voice, cold and indifferent, cut through. "It’s just my maid. Ignore it. Hang up." And just like that, the call disconnected. Staring at the torrent rising around me, my pulse quickened. I texted him, begging for him to send a rescue team. Minutes passed as the waters climbed to my waist, churning and relentless. Then, a message from Tristan finally appeared. Tristan: [What kind of ridiculous story are you making up now?] Tristan: [Emily, do you think you're eighteen, playing these childish games? I want that document in my hands within thirty minutes, or we're getting divorced.] A surge of terror shot through me as I looked up, catching sight of a heavy branch snapping loose and crashing down. In an instant, everything went dark.

On the day we reported for the new semester, my girlfriend had just been admitted to one of the country's top universities. That morning, she suddenly told me she had chosen the wrong major and wanted to take a year off to retake the entrance exam. I knew exactly why. It was for her childhood friend, the one who had not made it. Her parents begged me to talk her out of it. After a night of painful deliberation, she appeared downstairs at my dorm and said, "I've made up my mind. I won't retake the exam. Let's stay together and make this work." However, during the freshman welcome event, just as her name was being called, her phone lit up. A message from him. [My prep class started today. My deskmate isn't you anymore. It feels so strange.] She went completely still. I tightened my grip on her hand and warned her quietly, "If you leave now, we're finished. Forever." She whispered an apology, dragged her suitcase behind her, and walked out of the campus.

Though we've been in love for six years, Arnold Porter, the Chief Legal Officer of the Werewolf Council, has canceled our marking ceremony 66 times. The first time he did so, he claimed that Erna Porter, his adoptive sister, was coughing blood in the middle of her heat. Decked in my gown, I stood in front of the Altar of the Full Moon alone until the moon had disappeared from the skies and everyone had left. The second time the ceremony gets canceled, it was because he suddenly received a message in the middle of the ceremony, saying that Erna was abducted by Rogues. He tore off his robes and shifted into his wolf instantly, rushing to save her, while I was forced to endure the laughter of our guests. Whenever we are to hold a ceremony, Erna will always get into trouble and then seek his help. Finally, when he cancels the ceremony for the 66th time, both my wolf and I give up. I break up with him and leave. Three days after I traverse the borders of the snowy plains riddled with powerful winds that conceal my trace, he seems to go crazy. He sends the elite guard of his pack on a mission just to find me.

At the dinner table, my mother-in-law slid a contract across to me, right in front of more than 20 relatives. "Just sign it," she said lightly. "Consider it a favor to me." I looked down. A home mortgage agreement for 150,000 dollars. Across from me, my husband's younger brother, Jim Canfield, watched with a grin. Beside him, my husband's eldest sister, Cindy Canfield, urged impatiently, saying, "Shirley, what are you waiting for? Just sign it." I said I needed to go home and talk it over with Howard Canfield first. My mother-in-law's expression darkened. "What? You can't even make this decision for your own marriage?" That night, I did not sign anything. Later, she sent a three-minute voice message in the family group chat, accusing me of being childish, ungrateful, and heartless. More than 70 replies followed—not a single one in my defense. A month later, I came home from work to find three men waiting at my door, there to seize the house. I pulled out my phone and checked the property registry. The record was clear. [Mortgaged. 150,000 dollars.]

Five years ago, Sofia walked away, vowing never to look back. She built a life of her own—one filled with freedom, color, and the one person who truly matters: her daughter, Martha. A little girl who only knows her father through a screen. FaceTime calls filled with awkward silences, a man who feels more like a shadow than a parent. But now, Theo Rodriguez is here. In the flesh. For the first time, Martha will see her father face-to-face. For the first time, Sofia will have to confront the man who once owned her body and nearly broke her soul. Theo says he’s here for their daughter, but Sofia knows better. He has always played by his own rules—dangerous, possessive, and unwilling to let go. She thought she had escaped his grasp. She thought the past was behind her. But when an ominous message arrives—You think this story is over?—Sofia realizes some devils never truly let go. And Theo Rodriguez might be the only man who can keep her and Martha safe. But at what cost? Will she surrender to him again… or finally break free?

After three years of marriage, Flora's Alpha never knew her. The only message he knew was her name, and what he didn't know was that Flora loved Leo from her childhood. She paid all the price for their marriage, but when she came to Leo's office, she saw her husband was hooking up with a seductive harlot! Divorce was the only word she could think of at that time. In the office, Leo pushed the harlot away when he heard that Flora left. He breathed a sigh of relief. This must be the last time she came, he thought. Leo doesn't love Flora because he had his first crush, who saved his life when he had been blind in the suburb. After the divorce, Flora came to work as a secretary of Leo's rival by mistake, and Leo found that he had fallen in love with this girl. To avoid Leo recognizing that she was his wife, Flora tried her best to hide herself, but mate's scent exposed her... Life was like a joke to Leo, because he never knew that all of his first crush, his wife and the girl beside his rival was Flora.

In my dormitory, there was a poor student. With all the good intentions in the world, my roommates and I were eager to help her, not realizing how much our help would cost. She wasn't impressed by the hairdryer we offered, insisting on borrowing a branded one instead. The skincare products we gave her? They were applied to her feet. And, as if that wasn't enough, she specifically demanded luxury face cream. One day, I lent her my tablet to look up some information, and to my surprise, she secretly opened up my gaming app, spent all the diamonds and reward tickets I had saved for half a year, and left me empty-handed. When I asked her to pay me back, she turned the tables and posted a public message online, accusing me. "I'm just a poor student from the countryside, never played games before. Are the materials in the game really worth this much?" Before I knew it, the comment section was flooded with criticisms of me. In a fit of frustration, I fired back with a post of my own, throwing her into the spotlight. "Well, I suppose you've never tasted the bitterness of being cyberbullied, have you?"

Depuis que l’air est devenu irrespirable, les gens ne sortent plus de leur appartement. Les portes des immeubles sont scellées, tel l’entrejambe d’une chrétienne prémaritale. 
Alors Vincent, programmeur, occupe ses journées de lignes de code, de sandwichs lyophilisés et de porno sur le web. 
Sa vie est insipide. 
Jusqu’au jour où apparaît sur son écran un message gouvernemental. Roulements de tambours et musique à crissement, sa vie bascule. L’acharnement ubuesque qu’il a donné pendant tant d’années à maintenir sa vie dans la banalité la plus inintéressante vole alors en éclat. La prison le guette, les cyber-terroristes l’espionnent. C’est la merde.

Dystopie drôle et crue, La Déréliction de la Chaussette trouée propose une réflexion cynique sur la génération Y au travers d’une société cyber dépendante.


After working overtime at the company for an entire week, I finally finish the last project on my plate and rush home. Not wanting to wake my sleeping wife, Mia Lawson, I carefully push the door open as quietly as I can. But the house is nothing like the silence I expected. A man's unrestrained laughter cuts sharply through the air. "You're already pregnant and still this bold. Aren't you afraid your husband will catch you?" "Why would I be? He hasn't been home for almost a week. Besides, once I tell him I'm pregnant, he'll be over the moon. There's no way he'll notice anything." In an instant, my hands and feet turn ice-cold, and blood rushes to my head. I'm about to charge in and catch them in the act when my phone suddenly vibrates with a follow-up message from the hospital. "Mr. Brooks, thank you for choosing our hospital for your vasectomy. We wish you and your wife a lifetime of happiness." A lifetime of happiness? I stare at those words, let out a cold laugh, and regain my composure. Then I turn around and call my divorce lawyer.

Today happens to be Yvonne Ziegler's birthday. Yvonne is Shawn Jacobson's, my husband's, newly hired personal assistant. Shawn spares no expense in buying her a villa as a birthday present, and Yvonne haughtily takes to social media to show off on the day she moves in. "I'd like everyone to know that I'm married to a wealthy man now." Shawn comments on the post, saying, "Happy birthday, my beloved Yvonne!" In the picture, Shawn's hand rests intimately on Yvonne's slender waist, leaving no doubt about their intimate relationship. In that instant, the company's group chat erupts into a frenzy of notifications, as colleagues declare their envy of Yvonne and heap praise upon her for being young and accomplished. Oscar Jagger, my childhood friend, notices the picture and immediately tags me in the group chat. He then sends me a pointed, teasing message, saying, "Shawn's display of love is so glaring! Congrats on being cheated on, Leslie!" I manage a bitter, wry smile, taking my time to type out the response. "Do you need a villa as well, Oscar? I'm happy to give you a place—a much nicer one than Shawn's, of course."