The paper on the wall fluttered as the air conditioning kicked in. It was always too cold in this apartment, but Mia Landry never turned it off—even when she was trembling, even when she pressed a cold mug of coffee to her lips and couldn’t taste a thing. She told herself the cold kept her alert, as if something so simple could counteract the haze that had settled over her since Fiona disappeared.
It was nearly midnight. Below her, the thrum of the club barely crept up to her floor—but she could feel it in her bones, the muffled bass like a second pulse. She owned the place, and most nights, the neon lights and sweat-drenched crowd felt like a fortification. But not tonight. Tonight, Mia felt sketched out and pale, standing by the window as the FBI agent examined the chaos she called her investigation.
The man stood silent—taller than most, broad-shouldered in a carefully tailored suit. He looked like he belonged at some DC gala, not this battered apartment where paint was peeling at the corners and every available surface was plastered with clippings, notes, photos, threads of twine. Clues, red herrings, obsessions.
He didn’t fidget like the detectives had. He didn’t put on a face of practiced concern, or give her the pitying looks she despised. In fact, Mia thought, he barely seemed to breathe. She ran a hand through her bobbed blonde hair and tried not to break the silence. That was his privilege, as the man with the badge.
Finally, he spoke, and his voice was lighter than she expected. Almost gentle. “Your sister’s case file is meticulous. More than the department’s version.” He removed a pinned photo—Fiona at the club’s bar, laughing—and inspected it by the hearth-glow of her desk lamp. “You worked on this alone for a year?”
Mia swallowed the lump in her throat. “No one else was working it,” she said, quietly but without apology. “They kept telling us she’d just run off. I know my sister. She wouldn’t leave Mom and Dad like that. She wouldn’t leave me.” She looked at the eight-by-eight grid of photos and timelines. She’d made it on New Year’s Day, desperate not to let twelve months of silence erase her hope.
He set the photo back with a practiced hand. “You look young for a nightclub owner,” he said, then met her gaze—a flicker of humor, perhaps, but not dismissive.
She bit back a smile, sudden and strange, and shrugged. “Family business. My mother owns the boarding house on Elenora Street. Dad did inventory for years—the bar’s actually pretty tame for this neighborhood. I took over after college.” Her eyes wandered, despite herself, down to her dark jeans, the scuffed boots she’d had since before Fiona vanished—the day she stopped buying new clothes, stopped living, really.
He nodded thoughtfully, as if weighing if this gave him insight into the missing sister. He was nothing like Detective Wallace, who always seemed to be calculating how quickly he could fake sympathy and get out.
She noticed he didn’t introduce himself—not right away. Instead, he took in the scattered evidence, the handwritten note-cards, the calendar dates circled again and again. He was like someone reading a very long and complicated story before turning the first page.
“My name’s Michael Ling,” he said finally, offering a small, direct smile. “FBI. I’ve been assigned after we found a potential connection between your sister and another disappearance in Hillcrest. I’d like your permission to review what you have in detail, and…” He hesitated, as if the words cost him. “…if you can tolerate a houseguest, I’d like to accept your offer—staying with your parents. The boarding house.”
Mia’s breath hitched. He hadn’t assumed. He hadn’t tried to ask for keys or for her to go fetch documents. He’d offered to become part of the scaffolding she’d built—her parents, her business, her tireless investigation. Maybe this was the difference; maybe he knew this wasn’t just a file.
“You’re welcome to anything here,” she told him, moving to unpin a pile of receipts, ride-share logs, and the last text Fiona had sent her. She handed them over, biting the inside of her cheek. “And—if you stay at the boarding house, my mom will want to feed you. A lot. She still cooks for three.”
He took the papers, his eyes not flinching at the raw pain in her voice. “I’d be honored.”
Stepping back, Mia forced herself to breathe. “The club closes at two. I can drive you over. My mom—she’s always up, just in case Fiona walks in.” Her voice was shaking now, threat of tears she tried to choke down. She needed to be cold, needed the AC’s numbness to settle in.
Agent Ling picked up on it, or maybe he just understood something about suffering. “You’ve done more than most families could,” he told her quietly. “But I intend to find her. And while I’m here…I’d like to help you, too.”
She found herself wanting to believe him—and that hurt, in a different way. Trust was dangerous. Hope was dangerous. But she handed him the last of the wall notes anyway, and started pulling on her jacket.
Below, the music changed—a different thump, a different pulse. And for the first time in months, Mia felt like she wasn’t alone in the cold upstairs room. Together, they turned toward the night air, the boarding house, and, somewhere out there, the trail to Fiona.
This story was generated by user kitty.cat07 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.
Prompt: Write a long story about a young nightclub owner who was standing in her apartment above the club with an FBI agent, to whom he offered to show up to find her sister, who had disappeared a year ago. Describe how she struggled with loss and suffered. Man stood in her apartment and silently looked through the evidence on the walls. The young nightclub owner watched him and noticed that he was different from the other policemen and detectives she worked with. She looked young for an FBI agent. When he finally spoke to her, the young woman offered to take everything he was interested in with him and even offered to let him stay with her parents, who ran a boarding house.
Response: The paper on the wall fluttered as the air conditioning kicked in. It was always too cold in this apartment, but Mia Landry never turned it off—even when she was trembling, even when she pressed a cold mug of coffee to her lips and couldn’t taste a thing. She told herself the cold kept her alert, as if something so simple could counteract the haze that had settled over her since Fiona disappeared. It was nearly midnight. Below her, the thrum of the club barely crept up to her floor—but she could feel it in her bones, the muffled bass like a second pulse. She owned the place, and most nights, the neon lights and sweat-drenched crowd felt like a fortification. But not tonight. Tonight, Mia felt sketched out and pale, standing by the window as the FBI agent examined the chaos she called her investigation. The man stood silent—taller than most, broad-shouldered in a carefully tailored suit. He looked like he belonged at some DC gala, not this battered apartment where paint was peeling at the corners and every available surface was plastered with clippings, notes, photos, threads of twine. Clues, red herrings, obsessions. He didn’t fidget like the detectives had. He didn’t put on a face of practiced concern, or give her the pitying looks she despised. In fact, Mia thought, he barely seemed to breathe. She ran a hand through her bobbed blonde hair and tried not to break the silence. That was his privilege, as the man with the badge. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was lighter than she expected. Almost gentle. “Your sister’s case file is meticulous. More than the department’s version.” He removed a pinned photo—Fiona at the club’s bar, laughing—and inspected it by the hearth-glow of her desk lamp. “You worked on this alone for a year?” Mia swallowed the lump in her throat. “No one else was working it,” she said, quietly but without apology. “They kept telling us she’d just run off. I know my sister. She wouldn’t leave Mom and Dad like that. She wouldn’t leave me.” She looked at the eight-by-eight grid of photos and timelines. She’d made it on New Year’s Day, desperate not to let twelve months of silence erase her hope. He set the photo back with a practiced hand. “You look young for a nightclub owner,” he said, then met her gaze—a flicker of humor, perhaps, but not dismissive. She bit back a smile, sudden and strange, and shrugged. “Family business. My mother owns the boarding house on Elenora Street. Dad did inventory for years—the bar’s actually pretty tame for this neighborhood. I took over after college.” Her eyes wandered, despite herself, down to her dark jeans, the scuffed boots she’d had since before Fiona vanished—the day she stopped buying new clothes, stopped living, really. He nodded thoughtfully, as if weighing if this gave him insight into the missing sister. He was nothing like Detective Wallace, who always seemed to be calculating how quickly he could fake sympathy and get out. She noticed he didn’t introduce himself—not right away. Instead, he took in the scattered evidence, the handwritten note-cards, the calendar dates circled again and again. He was like someone reading a very long and complicated story before turning the first page. “My name’s Michael Ling,” he said finally, offering a small, direct smile. “FBI. I’ve been assigned after we found a potential connection between your sister and another disappearance in Hillcrest. I’d like your permission to review what you have in detail, and…” He hesitated, as if the words cost him. “…if you can tolerate a houseguest, I’d like to accept your offer—staying with your parents. The boarding house.” Mia’s breath hitched. He hadn’t assumed. He hadn’t tried to ask for keys or for her to go fetch documents. He’d offered to become part of the scaffolding she’d built—her parents, her business, her tireless investigation. Maybe this was the difference; maybe he knew this wasn’t just a file. “You’re welcome to anything here,” she told him, moving to unpin a pile of receipts, ride-share logs, and the last text Fiona had sent her. She handed them over, biting the inside of her cheek. “And—if you stay at the boarding house, my mom will want to feed you. A lot. She still cooks for three.” He took the papers, his eyes not flinching at the raw pain in her voice. “I’d be honored.” Stepping back, Mia forced herself to breathe. “The club closes at two. I can drive you over. My mom—she’s always up, just in case Fiona walks in.” Her voice was shaking now, threat of tears she tried to choke down. She needed to be cold, needed the AC’s numbness to settle in. Agent Ling picked up on it, or maybe he just understood something about suffering. “You’ve done more than most families could,” he told her quietly. “But I intend to find her. And while I’m here…I’d like to help you, too.” She found herself wanting to believe him—and that hurt, in a different way. Trust was dangerous. Hope was dangerous. But she handed him the last of the wall notes anyway, and started pulling on her jacket. Below, the music changed—a different thump, a different pulse. And for the first time in months, Mia felt like she wasn’t alone in the cold upstairs room. Together, they turned toward the night air, the boarding house, and, somewhere out there, the trail to Fiona.
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