Title: The Disappearing Act at The Scarlet Hound
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Harlow Reed’s club always smelled like a mix of citrus vodka, polish, and anticipation. The neon signs in the alley still flickered—a heartbeat calling partygoers into her haven, The Scarlet Hound. Since opening the doors a year ago, she’d poured her soul into it. She’d painted the basement walls herself, picked out every crystal glass, and personally tested each velvet banquette’s springs. But all that attention to detail couldn’t save her now.
Tonight should have been ordinary: Friday, an early summer evening, her biggest night. Instead, the music dial resting silent sent chills down her arm. Harlow was slicing lemons at the bar, every motion precise. The half-moons landed neatly into glass bowls. Her hands moved on autopilot, yet every so often she’d pause, gaze lingering on the golden portrait by the entryway. Her sister Val’s sweater—left behind carelessly last week when Val promised to meet her after her last shift—was folded beside her phone. It was still there. That impossibly loud polka-dot thing, bright as fireworks.
Val had disappeared five days ago.
No note, no suitcase missing, no routine broken—just gone, as if the walls had swallowed her whole. Harlow remembered the exact moment her world began unraveling. It was a text from one of Val’s friends: “Hey, is Val with you? She never picked up her paycheck.” Harlow’d dismissed it at first. Not Val. Val was never late, never overlooked her hard-earned pay.
Now, as she arranged glasses on the bar—one, two, three, four, the tenth shelf—she caught herself picturing Val on that last night. Laughing at some inside joke, slipping her a whiskey sour with extra ice. The image was so vivid it made Harlow’s chest ache.
She set another line of crystal tumblers in a neat row, but her hands trembled so hard that one slipped. Glass exploded in a cascade of angry music. Sharp-edged confetti rained across granite.
“Shit!” she gasped. Blood rose in tiny beads on her palm. She could hear Val’s voice as if she were there—gentle, exasperated, “Harlow, you fuss too much. You’re going to run yourself ragged. Come dance.”
No patrons yet. Only the sound of broken glass. Harlow pressed the towel to her hand and let herself collapse on the floor, shoulders shaking as the neon washed her in blue gloom.
A flash of memory: that last argument. Val, perched on Harlow’s office desk, feet swinging, eyes glinting like she knew something Harlow didn’t. “I’m not a kid anymore, Har,” she’d said, voice caught between defiance and pleading. “I have my own life now.” Harlow had laughed it off, but she could taste regret in the back of her throat.
Beneath the bar, on hands and knees collecting broken shards, Harlow’s mind grasped for order—anything to distract her from her own helplessness. She thought about Val’s favorite playlist, the contacts in her phone, the friends who all swore they hadn’t heard from her. The police had shrugged their shoulders: “You know how young people are. Maybe she just needed time away.” But deep down Harlow knew—this was not like her sister.
She sat upright, cradling the broken glass and her throbbing hand. Across the club, the storage closet door hung slightly ajar. Val’s orange scarf poked out near the bottom, forgotten—or maybe left as a clue? Harlow’s pulse kicked up. She staggered over, heart pounding, and pulled at the scarf. Nothing beneath but extra menus and cleaning supplies.
She sank to her knees again, this time overcome by anger. If no one else was going to search for Val, she would. She would rake every inch of the city if she had to.
She wiped her hands, changed her shirt, bandaged her finger, and opened the front door. The city’s heartbeat rushed in—horns, club music from rival venues, laughter. Somewhere out there, Val had vanished. Harlow drew a shaking breath, forced her shoulders back, and texted Val’s last known friends again: **Did Val say anything strange? Was anyone with her? Did she seem scared?**
A reply pinged: *Idk she kept looking over her shoulder. Said some guy was watching her. Some old guy in a blue suit.*
Harlow read it three times.
The clue shivered through her bones like a new-cut note. She locked up the club and slipped into the night, her heels striking the pavement in determined rhythm. If Val had vanished into thin air, Harlow would chase the shadow—through the city’s neon haze, through every laughter-framed street, through midnight until morning.
Tonight, the Scarlet Hound would wait for music. Harlow would make sure her sister’s story didn’t end in silence.
This story was generated by user ziggo.zane 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 whose younger sister mysteriously disappears. Describe how the young owner was preparing the club for an evening of partying when she suddenly broke down thinking about her sister and broke the glasses.
Response: Harlow Reed’s club always smelled like a mix of citrus vodka, polish, and anticipation. The neon signs in the alley still flickered—a heartbeat calling partygoers into her haven, The Scarlet Hound. Since opening the doors a year ago, she’d poured her soul into it. She’d painted the basement walls herself, picked out every crystal glass, and personally tested each velvet banquette’s springs. But all that attention to detail couldn’t save her now. Tonight should have been ordinary: Friday, an early summer evening, her biggest night. Instead, the music dial resting silent sent chills down her arm. Harlow was slicing lemons at the bar, every motion precise. The half-moons landed neatly into glass bowls. Her hands moved on autopilot, yet every so often she’d pause, gaze lingering on the golden portrait by the entryway. Her sister Val’s sweater—left behind carelessly last week when Val promised to meet her after her last shift—was folded beside her phone. It was still there. That impossibly loud polka-dot thing, bright as fireworks. Val had disappeared five days ago. No note, no suitcase missing, no routine broken—just gone, as if the walls had swallowed her whole. Harlow remembered the exact moment her world began unraveling. It was a text from one of Val’s friends: “Hey, is Val with you? She never picked up her paycheck.” Harlow’d dismissed it at first. Not Val. Val was never late, never overlooked her hard-earned pay. Now, as she arranged glasses on the bar—one, two, three, four, the tenth shelf—she caught herself picturing Val on that last night. Laughing at some inside joke, slipping her a whiskey sour with extra ice. The image was so vivid it made Harlow’s chest ache. She set another line of crystal tumblers in a neat row, but her hands trembled so hard that one slipped. Glass exploded in a cascade of angry music. Sharp-edged confetti rained across granite. “Shit!” she gasped. Blood rose in tiny beads on her palm. She could hear Val’s voice as if she were there—gentle, exasperated, “Harlow, you fuss too much. You’re going to run yourself ragged. Come dance.” No patrons yet. Only the sound of broken glass. Harlow pressed the towel to her hand and let herself collapse on the floor, shoulders shaking as the neon washed her in blue gloom. A flash of memory: that last argument. Val, perched on Harlow’s office desk, feet swinging, eyes glinting like she knew something Harlow didn’t. “I’m not a kid anymore, Har,” she’d said, voice caught between defiance and pleading. “I have my own life now.” Harlow had laughed it off, but she could taste regret in the back of her throat. Beneath the bar, on hands and knees collecting broken shards, Harlow’s mind grasped for order—anything to distract her from her own helplessness. She thought about Val’s favorite playlist, the contacts in her phone, the friends who all swore they hadn’t heard from her. The police had shrugged their shoulders: “You know how young people are. Maybe she just needed time away.” But deep down Harlow knew—this was not like her sister. She sat upright, cradling the broken glass and her throbbing hand. Across the club, the storage closet door hung slightly ajar. Val’s orange scarf poked out near the bottom, forgotten—or maybe left as a clue? Harlow’s pulse kicked up. She staggered over, heart pounding, and pulled at the scarf. Nothing beneath but extra menus and cleaning supplies. She sank to her knees again, this time overcome by anger. If no one else was going to search for Val, she would. She would rake every inch of the city if she had to. She wiped her hands, changed her shirt, bandaged her finger, and opened the front door. The city’s heartbeat rushed in—horns, club music from rival venues, laughter. Somewhere out there, Val had vanished. Harlow drew a shaking breath, forced her shoulders back, and texted Val’s last known friends again: **Did Val say anything strange? Was anyone with her? Did she seem scared?** A reply pinged: *Idk she kept looking over her shoulder. Said some guy was watching her. Some old guy in a blue suit.* Harlow read it three times. The clue shivered through her bones like a new-cut note. She locked up the club and slipped into the night, her heels striking the pavement in determined rhythm. If Val had vanished into thin air, Harlow would chase the shadow—through the city’s neon haze, through every laughter-framed street, through midnight until morning. Tonight, the Scarlet Hound would wait for music. Harlow would make sure her sister’s story didn’t end in silence.
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