Whispers in the Night
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The low pulse of dance music barely seeped through the thick velvet curtains of the club’s back office, but Lya Ferrell could sense it as surely as a heartbeat, a reminder that life thrummed just beyond her closed door. It was nearly 2 a.m., the hour when the regulars had weaved themselves into little islands across the bar, when secrets were safest in the darkness. Lya, twenty-six and already half a legend among the night people of her city, had settled into the battered brown leather chair behind her desk with a fistful of receipts and tomorrow’s to-do lists.
Desmond, her loyal bartender, had slipped a note under the door: “She’s here.” No signature. None needed. Lya didn’t get many visitors at this hour, let alone those she hadn’t summoned herself. She was still reading it when the door opened without a knock.
The figure who entered took the room in with a single, uncanny sweep of her ice-blue gaze. The woman was taller than Lya, draped in a midnight blue coat that hinted at Paris
This story was generated by user vivi.lex 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 very long story about a young club owner who was sitting in her office with a vampire. Describe how the blonde asked her about a relative who looked just like her. Write how the club owner had never heard of that name but decided to help the vampire find her relative.
Response: The low pulse of dance music barely seeped through the thick velvet curtains of the club’s back office, but Lya Ferrell could sense it as surely as a heartbeat, a reminder that life thrummed just beyond her closed door. It was nearly 2 a.m., the hour when the regulars had weaved themselves into little islands across the bar, when secrets were safest in the darkness. Lya, twenty-six and already half a legend among the night people of her city, had settled into the battered brown leather chair behind her desk with a fistful of receipts and tomorrow’s to-do lists. Desmond, her loyal bartender, had slipped a note under the door: “She’s here.” No signature. None needed. Lya didn’t get many visitors at this hour, let alone those she hadn’t summoned herself. She was still reading it when the door opened without a knock. The figure who entered took the room in with a single, uncanny sweep of her ice-blue gaze. The woman was taller than Lya, draped in a midnight blue coat that hinted at Paris
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