Title: "Ember's Fury"
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The city pulsed outside, neon veins running through the heart of somewhere just beyond midnight. Vera, who owned the Silver Ember club, sat in her private booth behind smudged one-way glass and velvet ropes. Her hands were ringed in gold, a statement for the world—or maybe for herself—her elbows resting on the polished table as she watched the dancefloor below swirl with bodies. Across from her, partially eclipsed by shadow, sat the strange man. He had eyes that wouldn’t settle, and hands that rarely stilled, supposedly an ex-detective or mercenary, depending on which street rumor you believed.
She’d chosen him because she was desperate. Her sister’s absence hung tightly in the club air, sharper than the lingering scent of gin and the tremble of the bass. No police, no favors. She needed someone who understood the necessary filth.
But all at once, the man was up from his seat, voice low and rough, his hand clamping around her wrist. He pushed her, suddenly and forcefully, her back contacting the black paneled wall. The booth’s shadowy privacy became a stage for accusation; he pointed to his untouched drink, his lip curled in suspicion, as if she would dare betray a fragile truce with poison. Each word from him hit as hard as his hand, and Vera’s fury bloomed, blazing past the edge of humiliation.
She shoved him back, not thinking, just moving, her rage sparking under her breath. For every inch he took, she reclaimed two; her jaw was set. Step by step, she moved him backward, her chest rising hard, and then—suddenly her foot caught, and she tumbled onto the slick, black leather couch. The stranger stood over her, muscles tensed, but instead of yielding, her boot shot up, planted hard between his thighs. He stilled.
Her glare burned with lightning, daring him to move, to speak, to accuse her again. She called him every name she could think in her mind, her lip lifted in a half-snarl. Yet, beneath the heat, something else threaded between them—something magnetic, primal; his nearness made her heart thud uncomfortably, her anger charged by a gravitation she couldn’t name.
Drawing her foot back, she drew herself upright, sliding forward, closing the distance until their faces hovered just short of touching. Her hand pressed flat upon his shirt; she felt the subtle tremor in his chest—a shiver of anger or interest, she couldn’t tell. Vera ignored it, refusing to let anything show but icy confidence, reminding herself that her sister was alive, somewhere, and he was going to bloody well help her.
She lingered a moment, their breaths mingling, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. Then she pulled away, leaving him there in the hush of the glassy booth, and strode out to the polished bar. Each step away was measured, a reclamation of her power. With hands that were steadier than she felt, she poured two glasses of whiskey—amber liquid splashing into crystal—her gaze lingering on the stranger’s reflection in the mirrored back wall. The distance between them was only a few meters, yet felt both insurmountable and charged with electric possibility, as if neither had meant for things to go quite this way, but neither wanted it to stop.
Behind her, the music thumped and rose, a promise of chaos, of hidden desires, but for that moment, in the hush before the next storm, all that mattered was her anger, her longing, and the man whose help she both detested and needed.
This story was generated by user bibi.vibi with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a long story about a young nightclub owner who was in her private booth with a strange man who accepted her offer to help her find her missing sister. Describe how he pushed her against the wall and accused her of spiking his drink. Describe how the club owner got angry and started pushing him backwards until she finally fell onto the leather couch. She put her foot between his thighs and glared at him angrily, calling him an asshole. Even though she was furious with him, she couldn't shake the feeling of attraction that appeared between them. She took her foot and leaned toward him so that their faces were at the same height. She rested her hand on his torso and in a confident voice said that her sister was alive and to find her. After a moment she pulled away from him and went to the bar and poured two glasses of whiskey. Describe everything without dialogues
Response: The city pulsed outside, neon veins running through the heart of somewhere just beyond midnight. Vera, who owned the Silver Ember club, sat in her private booth behind smudged one-way glass and velvet ropes. Her hands were ringed in gold, a statement for the world—or maybe for herself—her elbows resting on the polished table as she watched the dancefloor below swirl with bodies. Across from her, partially eclipsed by shadow, sat the strange man. He had eyes that wouldn’t settle, and hands that rarely stilled, supposedly an ex-detective or mercenary, depending on which street rumor you believed. She’d chosen him because she was desperate. Her sister’s absence hung tightly in the club air, sharper than the lingering scent of gin and the tremble of the bass. No police, no favors. She needed someone who understood the necessary filth. But all at once, the man was up from his seat, voice low and rough, his hand clamping around her wrist. He pushed her, suddenly and forcefully, her back contacting the black paneled wall. The booth’s shadowy privacy became a stage for accusation; he pointed to his untouched drink, his lip curled in suspicion, as if she would dare betray a fragile truce with poison. Each word from him hit as hard as his hand, and Vera’s fury bloomed, blazing past the edge of humiliation. She shoved him back, not thinking, just moving, her rage sparking under her breath. For every inch he took, she reclaimed two; her jaw was set. Step by step, she moved him backward, her chest rising hard, and then—suddenly her foot caught, and she tumbled onto the slick, black leather couch. The stranger stood over her, muscles tensed, but instead of yielding, her boot shot up, planted hard between his thighs. He stilled. Her glare burned with lightning, daring him to move, to speak, to accuse her again. She called him every name she could think in her mind, her lip lifted in a half-snarl. Yet, beneath the heat, something else threaded between them—something magnetic, primal; his nearness made her heart thud uncomfortably, her anger charged by a gravitation she couldn’t name. Drawing her foot back, she drew herself upright, sliding forward, closing the distance until their faces hovered just short of touching. Her hand pressed flat upon his shirt; she felt the subtle tremor in his chest—a shiver of anger or interest, she couldn’t tell. Vera ignored it, refusing to let anything show but icy confidence, reminding herself that her sister was alive, somewhere, and he was going to bloody well help her. She lingered a moment, their breaths mingling, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. Then she pulled away, leaving him there in the hush of the glassy booth, and strode out to the polished bar. Each step away was measured, a reclamation of her power. With hands that were steadier than she felt, she poured two glasses of whiskey—amber liquid splashing into crystal—her gaze lingering on the stranger’s reflection in the mirrored back wall. The distance between them was only a few meters, yet felt both insurmountable and charged with electric possibility, as if neither had meant for things to go quite this way, but neither wanted it to stop. Behind her, the music thumped and rose, a promise of chaos, of hidden desires, but for that moment, in the hush before the next storm, all that mattered was her anger, her longing, and the man whose help she both detested and needed.
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