Novels by GOson-Pen

The sky looked sick. Ash hung where clouds should have been, glowing faintly red like the last embers of a dying fire.Bruce stood in the middle of what used to be downtown, buildings warped into glassy skeletons, cars melted into the pavement. The wind moaned through empty towers. You’re home, the relic whispered.He frowned. “Doesn’t look like it.”Home changes when you do.A faint crunch sounded behind him. He spun, hands raised, ready to summon flame if he needed to.A figure moved through the haze, wrapped in a torn coat, gas mask covering their face. “Easy,” they said, voice muffled. “If you’re alive, you’re a miracle.”Bruce stayed silent. “Alive’s a flexible term.”The stranger lowered the mask just enough to speak, dark skin, eyes like dull copper. “Name’s Mira. You don’t look like one of the glassers.”“The what?”She gestured toward a collapsed overpass. In its shadow, half-melted people shimmered faintly, bodies turned to translucent stone mid-motion. “They burned when the

Bruce couldn’t tell whether the first scream came from his throat or the glass. Every mirror around him was alive.Hundreds of versions of himself, rippling in and out of sync, shouting words he didn’t remember saying. “Wake up”“Don’t listen”“You’re killing us”Aimes’s calm voice slid through the chaos. “You see it now, Mr Willis. You’re the fracture holding all worlds apart. Every reflection is one you left unfinished.”Bruce clutched his head. “Make it stop!”“I can’t,” said Aimes. “Only you can. Merge them, and the noise ends.”Lena appeared behind Aimes, her reflection multiplying endlessly. “Don’t trust him, Bruce. Every merge kills another piece of you.”“I’m already pieces!” Bruce shouted. Burn them, whispered the relic. Forge one truth.He raised his hands. Fire curled from his palms, thin at first, then pure white. Each mirrored Bruce flinched.“Stay back,” said one reflection, the version with the fire-eyes from before. “You’re not ready. You’ll erase everything.”Bruce’s

The first thing Bruce felt was breath. His own. Slow, ragged, real. He opened his eyes to a hospital ceiling, white tiles, humming fluorescent light.He tried to sit up; tubes tugged at his arms. Machines beeped in arrhythmic patterns. He was alive. Maybe.A nurse entered. Smiling, efficient, eyes just slightly off. “Good afternoon, Mr. Willis. You’ve been asleep for a long time.”“How long?” he croaked.“Eighty-four days.”Her voice was calm, but her smile didn’t fade. Not once. “Where’s Lena?”“Resting,” she said. “She visits often.”He frowned. “She’s dead.”“Not anymore.”He stared. “Say that again.”She tilted her head. “Not anymore.”And then the power flickered. The room dimmed for half a heartbeat. In that heartbeat, the nurse’s face split, half flesh, half reflection.When the lights returned, she was normal again, smile intact. Bruce whispered, “Still the maze.”Half right, murmured the relic. You’re between.He froze. “Between what?”Sleep and waking. Mind and body. You fel

The glass light overhead had barely finished shattering when the office froze mid-motion, Dr Hollis suspended, pen hovering an inch above her clipboard.Bruce stood very still. “Pause button again,” he muttered.No response. Only the faint hum of static, low and living. He took a cautious step forward. The world rippled around his shoe, like stepping into a puddle that wasn’t water. “Okay,” he whispered. “Still dreaming.”Not dreaming, the voice of the relic murmured. Mapping. “Mapping what?” Exits.He almost laughed. “Good. Find one.”The air flickered; Hollis’s head jerked sideways by itself, eyes turning to meet him. Her lips didn’t move when her voice came. “There are no exits, Mr Willis. Only layers.”Bruce swallowed. “Then I’ll peel them.”He pushed past her, his hand passed through her shoulder like smoke, and the wall behind her unfolded into a hallway made of light and concrete at once.Every door looked identical. Each had a number carved backwards. “Which way?” he asked.Fo

When Bruce opened his eyes, he was lying on a leather couch under soft amber light. For a heartbeat he thought the nightmare was over, until he noticed that the light didn’t have a source.It just existed, glowing from nowhere. He sat up slowly. The air smelled of rain and antiseptic. A hospital? he thought.No machines beeped. No footsteps. Just the faint hum of silence stretched too tight. Then a voice came from behind him. “Welcome back, Mr Willis.”Bruce turned. A woman in a gray suit stood beside a polished desk. Her face was calm, symmetrical, too symmetrical. Her eyes, pale green, never blinked. “Who are you?” he asked.“Dr Sera Hollis,” she said. “Cognitive restoration specialist. You were brought in after an… incident.”He rubbed his temples. “Where’s Lena?”“Lena?” She frowned slightly. “You were alone when the rescue team found you.”“That’s not possible. She, she pulled me out”“You suffered severe delusions from neural overburn. Hallucinations are expected.”Bruce laughed

Smoke hung in the air like breath that refused to fade. Bruce blinked, struggling to focus. The lab had melted into something else, walls rippled like reflections in water, the floor stretching, breathing. Lena was gone. Only he remained.Dr. Victor Aimes stood in the middle of the room, the darkness folding around him like a cloak. His skin shimmered faintly beneath the flickering lights, veins glowing ember-red. His eyes, calm and cold, tracked Bruce like a scalpel poised above a wound. Bruce’s throat was dry. “You’re dead.”Aimes smiled faintly. “Most people are. They just don’t realize it yet.”Bruce’s fists clenched. “What did you do to me?”“I finished what you started.”“I didn’t start anything!”“You did when you touched my relic.”The word my twisted through Bruce’s mind like a knife. “You left that thing in my basement”“Correction,” Aimes said softly. “I buried it. You dug it up.”Bruce took a shaky breath. “Why? Why give me this?”“I didn’t.” Aimes tilted his head. “It c

Falling felt endless. Ayla braced for impact, but instead of crashing, she floated. The dark swallowed her, weightless, soundless, until she touched solid ground. It was grass.Warm wind brushed her face, carrying the scent of rain and sunlight. When she opened her eyes, the world had changed again.They stood in a meadow under a silver sky. Rolling hills shimmered like watercolor, and the air hummed softly, as if the world itself was breathing.Spike landed beside her, knees hitting the ground. He looked around, dazed. “Where… is this?”Ayla helped him up. “You tell me. It’s your mind.”He turned slowly in place. “No. This, this isn’t a memory. It’s too… quiet.”“Maybe it’s where your memories go to rest,” she said.“Or to hide.”They started walking. Each step left faint ripples in the grass, as though they were walking across a thin layer of water. In the distance stood a single tree, tall, ancient, glowing faintly from within.Ayla pointed. “That’s where it wants us to go.”“Or wh

Ayla hit pavement. Not glass, not light, pavement. Cold rain splattered against her face as she gasped and rolled onto her back. A streetlight flickered overhead, humming softly. “Spike!” she shouted.He lay a few feet away, motionless. A horn blared somewhere in the distance, but when she looked up, the road was empty. The entire city stretched before them, familiar yet wrong.Buildings leaned at impossible angles. Cars hovered an inch above the ground, wheels spinning silently.Storefronts glowed with lights that spelled words she couldn’t read, letters rearranging themselves whenever she blinked. She crawled to Spike, shaking his shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”He groaned, opening his eyes. “Where are we?”“I don’t know,” she said, helping him sit. “Looks like… your world. But not.”He looked around. “That’s my street. That’s my apartment building.” He pointed at a tall structure half-covered in vines of light. “Except… that place burned down years ago.”Ayla rose slowly. “Then we’re dee

Ayla hit the ground hard. The impact sent a shock through her arm, but she forced herself up before the dust settled.The world around her was breaking apart. Fragments of glass sky fell like rain, shattering silently before they touched the ground.Rivers of light cut through the darkness, flowing upward instead of down. Spike was gone, swallowed by the voice that had taken his shape.“Spike!” she shouted. Her voice was lost in the storm of whispers. “Spike, answer me!”Only echoes answered, warped and hollow. “He’s gone…”“He chose us…”“You can’t save him…”Ayla gritted her teeth. “Watch me.”She pushed forward through the fractured terrain, her boots clanging against shifting shards of mirrored stone. Every reflection she passed flickered with Spike’s face, smiling, crying, screaming. She ignored them all.“Not real,” she muttered. “Not him.”The world pulsed again. A fissure tore open ahead of her, revealing a chasm filled with white fire. From within, shapes moved, shadow creatu

“Spike…” Ayla’s voice trembled, barely more than a breath.The world had frozen mid-collapse. The black sky hung above them, cracked like a mirror suspended over eternity. The light that poured from the fissures was no longer gold, it was pale, cold, and listening.Spike pushed himself up from the fractured ground. “Where’s the… thing? The one that spoke?”“I don’t know,” she said. Her sword glimmered faintly, though its reflection bent wrong in the light. “I don’t think it has a shape.”“Everything has a shape,” Spike muttered. “Even fear.”Then came the whisper.“Fear is shape, Vessel. Fear is the frame that holds your mind together.”They both spun. No one there. Only their own reflections scattered across the shards of the broken world, hundreds of Spikes and Aylas staring back, slightly out of sync.Ayla stepped closer to him. “It’s inside you.”“I know,” he said. “But I don’t think it wants to leave.”“Leave?” the whisper slid through the air, slow and wet. “You opened the door.

Spike woke to sunlight, real sunlight, warm and golden. Birds sang somewhere overhead. For a blissful moment he thought the nightmare was over. Then he saw the sky.It wasn’t blue. It was fractured, like glass reflecting hundreds of different scenes at once: the wrecked ambulance, a hospital corridor, the forest, the endless void.Each shard moved slightly, showing pieces of his past looping over and over. He sat up fast. “No. No, no, no.”Ayla stirred beside him, blinking in the light. “Where… are we?”“I don’t know,” he said, standing shakily. The ground beneath him shimmered like water but felt solid. “But I think it’s mine.”Ayla frowned. “Your world?”“My head,” he said quietly. “We’re inside my head.”She looked around. The landscape stretched endlessly, hills made of metallic glass, trees shaped from memories. One of them bore photographs instead of leaves, swaying in an invisible wind.Ayla plucked one. The image showed Spike as a child, bandaged knee, holding a tiny lizard in

The light swallowed everything, sound, form, thought. When it finally faded, Spike fell hard onto wet stone.He gasped, rolling to his side. The air was sharp, metallic. He blinked against the haze, realizing the rain was gone, but faint blue motes floated around him, like ash glowing from a dead fire.Ayla groaned nearby, pushing herself upright. “Tell me we’re not dead.”“If we are,” Spike muttered, “this is the weirdest afterlife imaginable.”He sat up. The ground wasn’t mud anymore but smooth obsidian streaked with veins of light, pulsing faintly beneath the surface.The forest had vanished. Around them stretched an endless canyon, suspended between a dark sky and a mirrorlike void below.Fragments of buildings, ruins, staircases, shattered bridges, hung weightless in the air. Ayla turned in a slow circle, eyes wide. “We’re inside the Gate.”“Inside it?” Spike asked. “You mean this is like, between worlds?”“Exactly that.” Her voice softened, awe slipping into fear. “A place that

The café was almost empty, just a few late customers and the low hum of rain against the windows.Stephen stepped inside, coat damp, collar turned up. The bell above the door gave a hollow chime.Alina was there, waiting in a corner booth. Five years hadn’t erased the sharp lines of her face, but the light in her eyes had dimmed. She looked up and froze. “Stephen…”He stopped a few feet away. “Alina.”“You” She stood, half-reaching, half-unsure. “I thought, Everyone said you were dead.”“Everyone prefers the version of me that stayed gone.”She sat again slowly, eyes flicking toward the window. “Who told you to come?”He slid into the opposite seat. “You did. Or at least, your ‘anonymous friend’ did.”Confusion crossed her face. “I didn’t send anything.”“I know.” He laid the printed message on the table. The ink blurred slightly from the rain.If you want her safe, come alone. Her hands trembled. “Safe from what?”“That’s what I’m here to find out.”The air hung heavy with unspoken h

Morning light was cruel. Stephen stood in front of the giant window in his penthouse, the skyline painted gold and gray.His phone vibrated nonstop, texts, emails, missed calls. Cassandra entered, tablet in hand, face pale. “It’s everywhere,” she said. “Every outlet’s running with it. Damian leaked your old photo, your real name, everything.”Stephen took the tablet, scrolling through headlines: ELIAS STONE EXPOSED AS STEPHEN BROOKE — FRAUD OR PHOENIX? THE MAN WHO LIED HIS WAY INTO POWER.He set it down gently. “So he finally played his card.”“It’s not just the press,” Cassandra said. “The board’s calling an emergency vote. They want answers before noon.”Stephen exhaled. “They’ll get them.”“You can’t talk your way out of this one, Stephen. He’s tied your new empire to your old crimes.”He turned to her, eyes calm. “Then we burn the connection.”Downtown – Media Frenzy. Cameras camped outside Vantage headquarters. The name Elias Stone was no longer armor, it was a target. Inside, ex

Morning headlines burned across every screen in the city.VANTAGE LOGISTICS FACES INTERNAL AUDIT OVER IDENTITY FRAUD ALLEGATIONSStephen, Elias Stone, stood in front of the monitor, coffee untouched. Cassandra read the article aloud, voice tight.“Anonymous sources claim the company’s founder falsified identity documents. Authorities may open a federal investigation.”He turned from the screen. “He moved faster than I expected.”“Damian?”“Who else?” Stephen exhaled slowly. “He’s not trying to destroy the company. He’s trying to unmask me.”Damian Cross watched the same broadcast from his office, the reflection of his own smile flickering in the glass. “Tell the press the whistle-blower’s credible,” he told his assistant. “Feed them the rumor about the mechanic from five years ago.”“That could backfire,” the assistant warned.Damian’s grin widened. “Backfire only happens if the target ducks.”At the Vantage Headquarters Cassandra burst into Stephen’s office with a folder.“Legal says

The rain had stopped, but the city still gleamed like a weapon. Damian Cross stood at his penthouse window, phone pressed to his ear, eyes cold and sharp as the skyline below.“He’s alive,” Patrick’s voice came through again, breathless. “I swear it’s him, D. He’s using the name Elias Stone. He bought us out.”“Calm down,” Damian said softly. “Panic makes you stupid.”“You’re not listening”“I’m always listening,” Damian cut in. “And if Stephen Brooke’s really back, he’s not here to shake hands.”Patrick’s silence answered for him. “Good,” Damian said finally. “Then we’ll give him what he wants.”“What does that even mean?”Damian turned from the window, pouring himself a drink. The ice cracked loudly in the glass. “It means,” he said, “if he came for revenge, let’s make sure it looks like he’s winning.”“You want to let him?”“I want him comfortable. Victors make mistakes when they start believing they’ve already won.”He smiled, slow and deliberate. “And Stephen Brooke has always be

The first rule of suspicion was silence. Patrick Moore had never learned it. He slammed his laptop shut, cursing under his breath.Every search, every record on Elias Stone led to the same wall: Vantage Holdings. No history before five years ago. No photos older than that. No family, no past. A ghost who signed checks.He grabbed his phone. “Damian, he’s clean,” Patrick said. “Too clean. Like someone built him out of thin air.”“Then dig deeper,” Damian replied. His voice was calm, bored even. “Everyone leaves a trail. Find the dirt before it finds us.”Patrick ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t think”“I don’t think,” Damian interrupted. “I know. That man’s money smells like revenge. Find out who’s holding the match.”The call ended. Patrick stared at the black screen. Rain tapped the windows, same rhythm that had haunted his family for months.Two days later. Patrick sat in a café downtown, across from a nervous young woman in a blazer. “You’re the records officer?” he asked.“

Five years later, the city had changed, but Stephen Brooke had changed more. Now, people called him Elias Stone, founder of Vantage Logistics, the silent giant that moved half the city’s freight without a single billboard or interview.He lived in glass and steel now, high above the same streets that once swallowed him whole. He poured coffee slowly, the city a mirror in the window.On the screen behind him, a news anchor’s voice droned: “The Moore Group, once a top supplier in construction and imports, faces potential bankruptcy following months of unpaid contracts”Stephen muted the television. The corner of his mouth lifted, barely. A soft knock.Cassandra entered, tablet in hand, her presence sharper now, seasoned by the years beside him. “Press wants a statement,” she said. “Rumors about the anonymous investor interested in buying Moore Group are everywhere.”“Let them rumor,” Stephen replied.“You’re really going through with this?”He glanced at her reflection. “I didn’t build