Something unexplainable is happening in this house—and it's crystal clear.

  If Otto’s behavior could still be rationalized—perhaps he really is the smartest dog on earth—then what I saw Rafe doing on the balcony defies all logic. The camera I installed to watch the birds at night captured everything in startling clarity. It didn’t look like the blurry, questionable footage in viral paranormal videos. It was real.

  Once at noon, and three more times after dark, Rafe sat on the balcony couch smoking, casually raising his hand to summon bats, ibises, and sparrows. He spoke in English; the birds chirped back. They were having a conversation.

  I couldn’t apply any reasonable framework to this, especially not after one of the bats dropped a coin at Rafe’s feet.

  The camera has no sound, but some angles captured his face. I spent a week trying to learn lip-reading and failed. I still don’t know what he said.

  I scoured everything from ornithology forums to medieval texts—no precedent, no training method, no legend about these specific birds interacting with humans, especially not like this. One of the ibises—missing three toes—is a regular on my balcony. For the past seven months, it was just a trash bird. I'm sure of it.

  Superpowers. That’s what I call this new, unspoken strangeness. If Rafe has them too, that’s at least a surreal explanation.

  My own wound is healing far too fast. A cut from a brow razor used to take a day to scab over. Now it closes before the blood dries. I didn’t try hurting myself on purpose, but my physical strength has spiked—without question. I can lift an entire crate of water bottles I used to struggle with. I walk uphill for twenty minutes with tote bags full of meat and juice and don’t feel like my lungs are on fire. These are measurable changes. Undeniable.

  But more than that—words I write while focused are starting to have real effects.

  That’s what my so-called “dumb little experiments” were for: proof.

  I first noticed something was off when I found an old pen behind my desk. Just to test if it still worked, I scribbled “On fire”—lyrics from a song I’d just heard—onto a scrap of paper. That scrap then burst into flames and crumbled to ash right on the desk.

  Everything changed.

  And I wasn’t about to let this new reality be taken away by Rafe or Otto. I felt guilty about what I planned to do next.

  “Rafe, mind if I treat Otto to some barbecue tomorrow night? Dried meat can’t compare to the real thing. The butcher’s dropping off a fresh delivery in the morning—she promised to save me the best cuts.” After a month of ordering premium dog food, I’d gotten close enough with the butcher to ask for bones as chew toys. “You too,” I added. “You should try my grilled steak. The doctor said I can eat whatever I want now. I want to celebrate.”

  If Rafe’s a monster, he’s the friendly kind—the kind who takes care of his dog and is weirdly considerate. He saw how much I love Otto. He let me nap with him on the couch, told me I could take him out any time, give him treats, even swat him if he got too rowdy.

  So this invitation wouldn’t raise alarms. Predictably, Rafe agreed.

  “Finally,” he sighed, relieved. “You’re letting yourself have some fun. Gimme the list, I’ll bring the meat back for you.” His reddish-brown eyes, in that moment, looked uncannily like Otto’s. “Don’t even think about going out like this. I’m not letting you limp around the butcher shop.”

  Who would suspect such a nice guy of sneaking into his landlady’s bedroom and digging through her trash?

  I hesitated, then sent him the shopping list. “Thanks in advance. I’ll pair the steak with Olive Oil in Gin Fizz. Goes great with smoked salmon sandwiches... I think.”

  No sign of suspicion. Of course, I looked half-dead and still walked with a limp. Everyone thought my recovery was slower than it was. I even brought a cane to school sometimes. Thankfully, Rafe hadn’t set up surveillance in my room.

  Back inside, I shut the door, locked the windows, and got to work. I sterilized a craft knife with alcohol, made a small incision along the green vein in my wrist, and let the blood drip into a steel saucer.

  The pain wasn’t the point. The sound of blood hitting metal—plip, plip—was like rain. It calmed me. I placed the saucer over a candle flame, added ink, stirred it with a glass rod until it turned a deep, dark red.

  Then, with a dip pen, I wrote “Sleep” and rolled the paper into a tiny scroll, sealing it into the mouth of an olive oil bottle.

  I’ve accepted it: words I write can influence reality. The more involved I am in the process, the stronger the effect. Focus alone boosts results by around twenty-five percent. Anything stronger requires more... investment.

  It was an idea I got from medieval sources—blood-ink is just the beginner’s tier. Even thinking about human-skin parchment and books bound with the bones of scribes made my stomach churn.

  But blood-ink worked well enough. Yesterday I ran my final test: I fed some inked fries to seagulls at the beach. A dozen birds napped for the entire day.

  (No birds were harmed. I watched them fly off at dusk, confused and hungry.)

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The old barbecue still worked wonders. The sizzle of marinated steak made Otto wag his tail like mad, running back and forth between me and Rafe for scraps. I brushed the “magical sedative” olive oil over the meat, smiled weakly but warmly as they ate.

  I’d calculated the dosage. They had maybe half an hour before falling asleep. I planned to talk to Rafe first—just as a friend.

  Honestly, we got along well. We both liked animals, Warhammer 40k, and wood carving. We carved our Halloween pumpkins three months early. I didn’t want to hurt someone who’d made me laugh.

  Soon, Rafe’s eyes began to dull. His wine glass nearly slipped from his hand. He mumbled something—but it was swallowed by his heavy breathing. Otto snored on the couch, legs twitching in a dream about hunting or being hunted.

  Dragging Otto’s crate out of Rafe’s room, my steps were lighter than they’d ever been. I almost forgot what it was like to pretend I wasn’t whole.

  I gently placed Otto inside, chained the crate shut. Rafe’s eyelids fluttered, limbs twitching less and less. I was pleased with the ink’s effect.

  Still, ever the cautious type, I poured more oil onto Otto, and into Rafe’s mouth too—just to be sure. While they slipped into deep sleep, I undressed Rafe. He was too heavy to move otherwise. I barely brushed his abs. I just checked every pocket, every seam.

  Unexpectedly, I found strange objects sewn into the inner lining of his coat—things hidden in the collar, in the hem.

  Panting, I dragged him to the bathroom, rolling him into a tub lined with plastic.

  If I have to do this more often, I really should get trained. But I doubt YouTube has tutorials titled “Workout Plan for Corpse Disposal.”

  Animal skin absorbs alcohol. I remembered a woman in Hong Kong who, during the pandemic, tried to disinfect her body by bathing in liquor. Forty percent ABV. She died of alcohol poisoning, alone in her tub.

  I don’t mourn fools. But I do learn from them.

  Unlike obvious poisons, alcohol’s a common, subtle killer. I’m a terrible person for wanting to see what it looks like—someone dying drunk in a bathtub. One big bottle of vodka barely covered the bottom of the tub. The fumes were dizzying. I felt drunk just from the smell.

  But Rafe had actually drunk most of it. His skin was turning pale. I checked his pulse. Fast, strong, but definitely alive.

  The spell wore off slower than expected. Rafe curled in the tub, unconscious for six hours. I got so bored I watched sailor’s knot tutorials and practiced every interesting one on his limbs—twice. Finally, he groaned and opened his eyes.

  “Got anything to explain, dear tenant?” I asked, pouring a splash of vodka on his head. The reek made him cough and curse.

  “Seriously?” he rasped. “You’re insane.”

  “Because you went through my room while I was out,” I said, calmly.

  “What?! Even if I did, that’s no excuse to—” He looked down at the layers of climbing rope binding his legs. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

  I showed him the footage of Otto stealing the burgers. The anger faded slightly. He stared, tight-lipped, probably crafting his next excuse. After a long pause, he adjusted himself in the tub. “Okay. We need to talk. You’ve found more than that, haven’t you?”

  I showed him the video of him chatting with birds.

  His eyes darted faster. Like a kid about to lie.

  I pressed further. Handed him the primate finger bone I’d found in his collar—wrapped in kitchen paper. “Cinderella, time to talk.”

  Twice, his lips moved. But all he managed was a dry, “You wouldn’t understand.”

  I smiled—couldn’t help it—and clenched the slip of paper in my hand.

  “Let’s see. Why were you so interested in searching my room?”

  The note in my palm read: If Rafe lies, the paper in Dai Li’s right hand will heat to 42°C. A basic lie detector. Much more accurate than instinct.

  “I’m sorry,” Rafe said, forcing a smile. “I’m just... curious. Sometimes I can’t help myself. I do shameful things.”

  My palm grew warm. Hesitant warmth. Not a lie. Just a distraction. A trap.

  I picked up the crowbar from the corner.

  I bought it for fun, thinking it looked cool in movies and games. Never thought I’d need it.

  “I’ll smash your skull, slice you up while your body’s still pliable, strip the flesh right here in this tub, cook it, and dump the rest into the sea.” I pointed to the fogged ceiling, explaining patiently. “Bones and hair are always the hardest. But I have a trendy barbecue grill. At 1,500 degrees, bones get brittle. Crushed bone makes great fertilizer. Did you know in the Middle Ages, nobles added animal bone ash to porcelain clay to make it more translucent?”

  I paused. “But I’m a practical person. I’ll use yours for something else. Maybe Otto’s new bowl. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him, he will have a better life with me than you.”

  I explained the method in detail. Gave textbook examples. After three more failed lies, I finally made up my mind.

  “If reincarnation’s real, I hope next time you’re honest—or never meet me again, liar.”

  I rolled my shoulder like a baseball pitcher, took aim, and brought the crowbar down—fast and hard. The metal screamed through the alcohol-heavy air and slammed toward Rafe’s skull.