Fahrenheit 451 Parlor Walls Novels & Stories

A second blinked to life beside it, then a third, and in the next few seconds, ten screens had come alive. The entire wall lit up in a cascading wash of blue, a luminous mural of flickering feeds and stolen perspectives. Faces carved themselves out of the digital glow, not mine, but the ones that mattered: Clarissa stumbling through the night, one hand pressed to the blood streaking down her arm, her breath fogging the cold air as she sought shelter; Freda sprinting through a flooded hospital corridor, alarms screaming above her while the floor glistened with overturned disinfectant; Isabella slumped against a concrete wall, her fingers trembling around a knife she no longer believed she cou

Harlow turned around again and saw the orange light down the hallway. "Hello?" She called out. Harlow started to take a few steps towards the light. The only response she got was her echo, and the light turned brighter. Suddenly, she knew what that light was. The flames of the fire took all it could, yet the walls remained firm. Flames rise into the ceiling as if they were challenging the heavens to stop their consumption of what was those hallways, the only place keeping her captive. Yet the fire was impatient, and the ceiling breathes aeons and moments as if it were one. Finally, the beautifully wooden hallway turned into turmoil, only becoming a speck of dust.

John insisted, pulling the girls along at a speed which barely allowed their feet to touch the ground. "We were already locked up." Faith grumbled under her breath, but John didn't say anything in response as they took off again down some steps, which led to a dead in – or so the girls thought. John pushed a series of bricks in in the wall which released a keypad, and he quickly typed a password into it, which made the wall slide in to the left, revealing a luxury panic room. Inside there were two long leather sofas sitting opposite each other, with an oak coffee table in the middle of the two. A fully stocked bar was at the end of the room, and the entire front wall was a cinema scream of s

"This isn't a tutoring room. This is the top of the world." Igor set down the wine glass he was polishing, his movements precise. He didn't smile, but there was a flicker of something close to satisfaction in his dark eyes as he watched my awe. "The library had walls," he stated, his voice flat. "Walls have ears, eyes, and predictable schedules. Here, we have only ourselves. And a security system that even my fiancé couldn't crack." He walked toward me, stopping just short of my personal space. The air instantly thickened with a familiar, crushing tension.

The house returned to itself with a layer only we could feel. Behind the bar, cutting limes, I thought about the little flat antenna behind the baseboard, the vandalism disguised as nothing. I thought about the contact mic in the piano hinge, tuned to grief and laughter. I thought about the wall that had been listening while we whispered secrets it had no right to hear.

Two days later. Palace War Room | Late at night | Rain pelting the windows | A fire slowly burning out. The war room was too quiet for comfort. The candlelight danced against the polished oak walls, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts. Maps were scattered across the long table, marked in red ink, ancient runes etched on parchment, scrolls opened halfway through deciphering. The smell of burning wax mingled with the soft scent of wet earth—the storm had not stopped since we returned to the capital.

Inside was a chamber unlike anything she’d imagined. It wasn’t a bedroom or gilded parlor. It was a vault. The walls gleamed with reinforced steel. Rows of screens lined one side, flickering with live feeds from cameras around the estate: the gates, the gardens, the outer ridges of the property. A table at the center bore maps strewn with markers, radios crackling with clipped voices, and stacks of weapons gleaming in the low light. It was a war room. Emilia’s stomach turned. She stepped further inside, the cold floor biting against her bare feet, and wrapped her arms around herself.

2026. PRESENT. SEOUL. HELL MORGATHOR PRISON. ☠️ SORA ☠️ I’m fading into the wallpaper as much as I can when Jane suddenly pulls me into a corner. “I said fade into the wallpaper, not dramatically get glued to the wall, you are making yourself more obvious,” she laments in frustration, illustrating with her hands. “You’re sticking to the wall, dramatically dragging yourself on the wall. Everyone is looking at you, acting insane!”

The phone glitched instantly. The screen flickered violently. Messages overlapped. Corrupted. Unreadable. The hum in the room spiked sharply. Then broke. A loud crack echoed through the space. The walls shifted again. More violently this time. “That’s it,” the other me said quietly. “Keep going.” I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. I threw the phone against the wall. It hit hard. Then dropped. Still flickering. Still glitching. The room reacted immediately. The floor trembled slightly.

(Don’t) But still, he said “Don’t stall Hade just kill him quickly” and with that, they both continued in the opposite direction. The metallic taste that forever hung the walls of this room registered in as soon he entered. Cobwebs hung at the corners and blood splashes on black walls added to the creepiness and dread. In the left corner laid the infamous shelf. The one with the tools that could even force the toughest to break the seal on their tongues. Close to it is coal in a large basin. Except for that, there were only two chairs in the room.