Post Human

Three years of contract marriage, and Silas has been the picture of icy restraint — buttoning his shirts all the way to the top. Knowing he doesn't love me, I decide to stop lying to myself. But just as I'm about to flee with the divorce papers, I stumble upon a forum called Mischief & Mayhem. The pinned post screams in red letters: "URGENT! I'm actually an incubus. I've spent three years pretending to be cold and celibate so I won't scare my wife. But she just asked for a divorce and I can't hide it anymore... HELP: How do I win her back in 30 days without revealing what I am?" In the attached photo, a black heart-tipped tail is shamefully coiled around a suit trouser leg, its tip hooked around a tie. That tie — I bolt upright in bed. That's the limited-edition tie I gave Silas. My iceberg husband is secretly a lovesick male incubus?

By chance, I stumbled across a trending post from our company's finance department while scrolling through social media. "That idiot in Sales. I just wanted to put my bar receipt under his name for reimbursement and he refused! If he won't let me claim it, then no one gets reimbursed! This time I'll make sure he learns what happens when you offend Finance!" The comments section was full of complaints and criticism, but the original poster didn't seem bothered in the slightest. The tone was arrogant, almost smug. "What's there to be scared of? Finance is the lifeline of any company! Would the boss really risk offending the backbone of the company over some replaceable sales guy? No way that's ever happening!" I stared at the all-too-familiar face in the profile picture and let out a silent, cold laugh. Blocking my reimbursement? Fine. This time, I'd like to see for myself what would actually happen if I mess with Finance.

I had just returned from a business trip. The moment I stepped through the door, I scooped my wife into my arms and rushed her straight to the bathroom for a steamy shower together. We were kissing passionately when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something: the toilet seat was flipped up. I froze. Seven years ago, my wife had read a post online claiming that when men pee standing up, bacteria splash onto the seat. She begged me to sit down to pee for the sake of her health. I have kept that promise. For seven years of marriage, that seat has never been up. A knot formed in my stomach, but the bathroom was spotless, so clean it looked staged, not a single stray hair anywhere. Then I noticed the shower temperature. It was set five degrees lower than her usual 43°C. Men like cooler showers. Women like them hotter… At that moment, I knew, Ruby Lynch had cheated on me.

Jenny posted a picture of me and her brother, who had an intellectual disability. The caption? "Finally, a happy ending!" The comments were all the same: "Is this your sister-in-law? She’s gorgeous!" I simply replied with a question mark, but Jenny ignored me and responded to someone else instead. "She's kinda my sister-in-law, yes!" It didn't take long for Steven to call me, his tone full of anger. "It was just a little edit, do you really have to blow things out of proportion?" Half an hour later, Jenny posted another photo of her sitting in Steven's luxury car, and even tagged me in it. "We may not be related by blood, but this big brother of mine has always been my rock!" Steven commented. "I'll always be here." I knew he was trying to get a rise on me on purpose to appease Jenny, but I didn't grace them with a reply this time. All I did was like the post and file for divorce.

In my third month of employment, I realized that my colleagues were calling me an old geezer behind my back. This nickname came from Wanda Stewart’s arrogant and ambitious assistant. I had hit the age of 32, but was still clinging onto the last vestiges of hope of marriage after eight long years of our relationship. I asked Wanda, “Do you know that your subordinates call me an old geezer?” She said without batting an eyelid, “That’s just the way Samuel is. He’s just a straight-talker and he’s just kidding. You’re already 32, are you seriously fussing about this?” She then chuckled, “You two are really alike.” My heart turned cold. Turns out that eight years of my youth were nothing but a joke to her. I turned to leave, resigning from my post and blocking her. Yet, the woman who was always so calm and cool started panicking. “Jansen Graham, please come back to me.”

For five years, I was married to the heir of the Romano family, Italy's biggest crime family. Every night, he'd hold me and whisper, "Just give me an heir, and I'll give him the entire Romano empire." But I never got pregnant, and the Don's disappointment in me grew with every passing month. Until I found out my husband had been secretly swapping my folic acid for birth control pills. I was still reeling from the fury when I saw a post from his ex-girlfriend: an ultrasound photo. Her caption was sweet and smug: “Ten weeks along. Vincent said he can’t wait to meet the baby.” Seeing the flood of congratulations, my mind was made up. I found the contact info for my ex-boyfriend—the one who’d spent the last five years trying to get me back. I sent him a single text. 【Give me one month. Then I’m coming with you.】

I was six months pregnant when my husband, Michael Greene, shoved me off the edge of a yacht during a birthday party. Why? Because Lily Clement, his childhood sweetheart, had fallen into the water, and apparently, the yacht was too small for all three of us. After being pulled from the ocean, suffering from hypothermia and shock, I was taken to the hospital. Doctors determined that emergency surgery was necessary and required a family member's consent. However, no matter how many times they called, Michael never picked up. At the same time, lying in a hospital bed, I scrolled through Lily’s Instagram and saw the post she shared just hours earlier. It was a photo of the two of them, soaked but clinging to each other like lovers out of a movie. "Sometimes love comes from the most unexpected places. Thank you for always being there for me—quietly, selflessly, unshakably." That was all I needed. The day I was discharged, I left Michael a signed divorce agreement. If he wanted to be her knight in shining armor, I’d let him.

On the same day I was admitted into the hospital for my pregnancy, my husband, Charles Page, received 108 missed calls on his phone. It was from Sue, his mentee, a girl who had cancer. I asked if he was going to pick up, and he replied impatiently, "All she does is call me all day! Doesn't she have any other family? She's so annoying." Later, that very girl posted a photo of herself on the hospital rooftop, wearing a white dress. The caption said: [If I jump down from here, will I become a butterfly in my next life? Maybe then, everyone won't hate me.] Charles only glanced at the post before chuckling mockingly. "What does she mean, turn into a butterfly? Is she delusional?" But after that, he grew visibly restless, before rushing out and not returning all night. That night, I hemorrhaged and was taken into emergency care. When the nurse asked if I wanted to keep the baby, I looked at the empty space beside me and answered calmly. "No, I don't."

A story between a werewolf young master and a naive human man. The werewolf is a rich second generation from a prestigious family lineage. He falls in love at first sight with the human man, but instead of pursuing and cherishing him, this pampered young master repeatedly hurts him, intentionally or unintentionally, even leading to his death. Out of guilt and to atone for his sins, the werewolf young master asks his wizard butler to help him resurrect the human man. The wizard butler informs him that with each resurrection, the human man will return with a new identity but will have to pay a price each time: his life will become tougher and his character will be more innocent. Despite the warnings, the werewolf young master, driven by his desire to reunite with the human man, insists on his resurrection, regardless of the consequences.

I was nine months pregnant when the Wolf Council sent a resource report to the Luna’s quarters. It listed my mate’s monthly distributions. For two years straight, my husband—the pack’s Alpha—had been secretly providing the same female wolf with territory access, protection, and supplies. Without missing a single month. The first record dated back to two years ago. The same month I lost my first pup. A notification appeared—A contact request. The note read: “A woman kept by an Alpha.” I was strangely calm, one hand rested on my swollen belly as I accepted. She messaged immediately. “You saw the report, didn’t you?” I didn’t reply, I opened her feed instead. The earliest post was dated April 21st, two years ago. A female wolf leaned against an Alpha’s chest. His face was cropped out—but the mark on his shoulder was clear. I recognized it instantly. My mate’s Alpha mark. The caption read: “Thank you for choosing me on my coming-of-age night.” April 21st. That was the night I lay bleeding in the healing room, losing my unborn pup. He had told me he was away on pack business. I kept scrolling. She trained freely in Alpha-only areas. Used resources reserved for the Luna. Was guarded as if she already belonged at his side. Every post carried the same message: He chose her. Pinned at the top was a medical report—She was pregnant—With the Alpha’s pup. I put the device down and returned to our bedroom. Then I received it—Photos. Videos. She sent them to me on purpose— to flaunt that the love I had once been so proud of had already rotted beyond repair. I sat down slowly, my pup shifting inside me, pain spreading through my chest. Only then did I understand—He had betrayed me completely. This kind of love—I don’t want it. This pack—I won’t stay in it. When my pup is born, I will leave—And I will take his heir with me. Let the Alpha search every territory, scour every border, tear the pack apart in regret— he will never find us.