Semblance Of Sanity Patreon Novels & Stories

Prototype. Anji picked up the vial, his thumb brushing against the cold glass. He knew the rumors about the bankrupt firms. They were all testing bio-enhancers, searching for the next big jump in human efficiency. His heart hammered against his ribs. He was supposed to tag this for the hazardous materials disposal team, but the words whispered to him. Cognitive Charisma. He thought of the boardroom. He thought of Randy. "One drop," he whispered to the empty room. His hands shook. "Just a little bit of help."

Samantha POV The Sanctuary did not explode. Which, frankly, felt rude. After everything—Silas ripping reality like a cheap zipper, Sébastien emotionally detonating centuries of unresolved trauma, me discovering I could rewrite metaphysics like deprecated code—I had expected at least a small collapse. A chandelier falling. A wall melting. Something cinematic. Instead, the Sanctuary did what all terrifyingly competent systems do after a catastrophic event. It rebooted. Soft gold light replaced the angry red. The crystalline veins dimmed to a warm, steady pulse. Somewhere deep in the manor, something chimed—polite. Cheerful. Like a server confirming that yes, the apocalypse had been successfull

Mirana uttered gazing into her eyes. "Don't think what others are going to say and think, Ness because these same exact others had hurted and broken Inessa Elvira Suarez to her extend but I can guarantee you that nobody is ever going to be capable of breaking or hurting Inessa Sinister Rodriguez because this time, she is not alone anymore, " Inessa swallowed hardly hearing her each and every word. "Remember you used to say, it's better to be an insane than to opt for the fakeness of sanity so be an insane because you have never gotten anything except by being sane so be an insane for yourself, be an insane for your happiness, be an insane for him, "

It's not like it can ever be out of this forsaken mansion. It must be Maximo, he seems kinder than they said. The scent of sandalwood tells me otherwise. I sigh and snuggle onto it, enjoying the gentle feeling it brings, my mind is floating and everything seems to be nice. Like I am living in Wonderland, heck no! That's not a great comparison, even Wonderland has monsters. My mind, however, has this protective mechanism that refuses to cooperate and agrees that terrible things can happen to me. It's good at making up sweet delusions, and right now it's telling me Santino is a nice, kind man.

“It’s us! That’s me in the middle, and you—and him! Pancake guy!” Alli’s throat caught. She took the paper, studying it. It was chaos, really. Wild scribbles. Wavy lines. No real sense of proportion. But she knew instantly who was who. Three stick figures: the tallest one with blonde hair and what looked like a beard and motor oil stains on his shirt; the shortest with impossibly long arms and pancake wheels beneath his feet; and her—with what appeared to be coffee in one hand and a heart drawn between her and Johnny’s stick figure in crayon red.

My ravenous hunger would be sure I didn’t follow through with a peaceful encounter with another Soul anyway, I was sure of it. God, I would do anything just to not feel the sickening agony in my stomach anymore. It hurt so much that it made the tears return just thinking about it. Weak. Useless. Pathetic. Hungry. My own mind wanted to destroy every last bit of sanity I had left. What physical pain I wasn’t feeling, it was beating into me emotionally. I couldn’t escape my own thoughts like I could escape everyone in here. Nothing was going to shut off the humiliation it bought with it. Nothing.

The thrill made her fingers clench around her cup. But then, for a fleeting second, doubt crept in. Aariz Seikh Pataudi was no ordinary man. He had the instincts, the ruthlessness, the possessiveness… the very thing that made him impossible to challenge. And Timtim—his wife, his possession, his little chaos—was someone who could bend even the most lethal hearts. Sana laughed softly, almost inaudibly. “Then I guess we’ll just have to be clever… very clever.”

it felt really painful. God, why? The tears that started streaming down his face were making his vision blurry, making him bump against people who were walking. He didn’t even bother saying his sorry, and those people cursed at him, and thought of him as a jerk. But no, Sane didn’t care. Sane didn’t care if those people thought of him as the worst person in the world. He didn’t care if those people thought that he was a spawn of Satan himself, that he was evil incarnate, he didn’t care. Because when one lost someone, he no longer cared

sensation of the disconnected link; every time she stepped onto this floor, her brain searched for the missing 60-hertz pulse with a desperate, rhythmic throb. "We’re asking for a 'Sanctum,' Avery," replied Dr. Aris Thorne (no relation to Silas), a former professor of philosophy. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot from the strain of "Collective Integration." "The Sombra is a masterpiece of survival, but it is the death of the 'Interior Life.' I can feel the grief of a man in Cairo while I’m trying to solve a quadratic equation. I can feel the hunger of a child in the Bronx while I’m trying to write a sonnet. My thoughts are no longer my own; they are just 'Data-Points' in the planetary

They'd had a disturbing relationship for sure. His medical treatments turned out to be a temporary cure from insanity, which was something that afflicted all idimmu eventually. In last night's visions, I'd watched Dante's sanity slip away. And he'd been aware of it, too, truly fearing that dark path. He'd been willing to do anything for a treatment from the "fixer." Therapist seemed like a better term, but that's how Dante had referred to the woman who had repeatedly healed him from his schizophrenia. Me? I would have called her Aunt Caroline.