Novels by dara

“The vessel?” Lucía repeated, her voice cracking. “What are you talking about? Are you high? Have you been doing something that involves needles or chemicals in that apartment of yours?”Diego ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat bead at his temples. The shipping yard seemed to shrink around them, the towering cranes acting like skeletal sentinels waiting for his next move. He could hear the God’s sharp, rhythmic tapping inside his cranium, a reminder of the ticking clock.“No, no, Lucía, look,” Diego said, waving his hands frantically as he tried to craft a story that didn’t involve an ancient, bored deity. “It’s not… it’s not magic. It’s an underground thing. A club. A fight club.”“A fight club?” Lucía took a step back, her eyes flicking to the three unconscious men in the dirt. “You? You struggle to open a jar of pickles without using a towel, Diego. How do you go from paralegal to… to that?”“Oh, tell her about the ‘illegal gambling ring’,” the God buzzed, sounding like

The digital clock on Diego’s nightstand flipped to 11:45 PM with a soft, mechanical click. Diego sat on the edge of his bed, his hands buried in his hair, staring at the vent where the stolen briefcase rested like a ticking bomb.“Stop hovering, Diego. The drop-off location is the old shipping yard by the pier. If you aren't there by midnight, the contact leaves, and we’re left holding a bag of corporate secrets that literally no one wants anymore,” the God buzzed, its voice sounding like static inside Diego’s ear canal.“I’m going, I’m going,” Diego muttered, grabbing his hoodie. “Why does every ‘divine’ errand feel like I’m auditioning for a low-budget action movie?”“Because you’re a low-budget actor, my dear vessel. Now, move. You have a transit route to cover, and your cardio is pathetic.”Diego didn’t argue. He pulled the briefcase from the vent, feeling the familiar, cold weight of it against his ribs. He crept out of his apartment, careful not to let the floorboards groan, and

The blue and red lights danced across Diego’s bedroom wall like a frantic, strobe-lit interrogation. Diego lay face-down on his carpet, the stolen briefcase wedged firmly under his mattress, his heart drumming against the floorboards.“Would you breathe? You’re hyperventilating again,” the voice buzzed in his skull. “It’s remarkably distracting. If you’re going to be a criminal mastermind, at least try to keep your pulse under a hundred beats per minute.”“I am not a criminal mastermind!” Diego hissed into the fibers of his rug. “I’m a paralegal who currently has a subconscious landlord and a stolen corporate briefcase in his bedroom. This is a nightmare.”Outside his door, heavy boots thudded against the hallway floor.“Check every unit,” a gravelly voice commanded. “The suspect was last seen near the main entrance. The landlord’s incapacitated and currently raving about a pet goldfish, so we need to be thorough.”“Ooh, a search party,” the God chirped. “This is like a game of hide-a

"Run?" Diego repeated, his voice barely a whisper against the cool night air. "Lucía, listen to me. I need you to go home. Take a cab, don't look back, and forget you ever saw me tonight."Lucía gripped his forearm, her knuckles white. "Forget it? You just played me like a lead in a spy thriller, and you expect me to just go home and watch reality TV? What is in that case, Diego? And why are you acting like you’ve been possessed by a hyper-active, invisible gym coach?"“She’s persistent,” the voice in his head droned, sounding mildly bored. “I like her. But she’s a liability. Also, you have a new notification. Don’t get excited. It’s a dud.”“I can’t tell you,” Diego said, pulling his arm away, his eyes darting toward the street entrance. “If I tell you, you’re in. And you don’t want in. Trust me, the view from the inside is mostly just running and sweating.”“Diego!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the brick walls of the alley. “We’ve been friends since the sophomore year of colle

“Lucía, listen to me,” Diego stammered, his pulse hammering in his ears like a drum solo. “We have to go. Right now. Seriously, the ceiling is about to have a very bad day.”Lucía didn’t move. She stood frozen in the lobby, her gaze flickering between the stolen briefcase in his grip and the chaotic screams erupting from the ballroom behind him. “Diego, you’re holding a briefcase that belongs to Sterling. You’re sweating like you’ve been through a car wash, and you’re talking about ceilings having bad days. What is happening?”“Oh, for the love of—tell her the ceiling is structurally unsound! Use your ‘paralegal’ brain, you simpleton,” the God hissed. “And move! If you’re still standing there when the security detail catches up, you’re going to be a cautionary tale in the evening news.”“Structural issues!” Diego blurted out, grabbing Lucía’s arm and tugging her toward the lobby exit. “The building. It’s old. Very, very old. The chandelier is a liability. I’m just… doing the firm a fa

“I’m the reason it started,” Diego said, the words tasting like copper and regret.Lucía stared at him, her lips slightly parted, the chaos of the bistro fading into a dull roar in the background. “You… you’re the reason? Diego, are you having a psychotic break? Should I call someone? Is this some weird, elaborate prank for your comedy podcast?”“Oh, pull yourself together,” the voice in his head snapped, sharp as a whip. “Tell her about the ‘Seismic Sensitivity’ app. It’s elegant, techy, and sounds expensive enough that she’ll stop asking questions for at least ten minutes.”Diego cleared his throat, his hands sweating so profusely he gripped the tablecloth to keep from sliding off the chair. “Lucía, relax. It’s an app. A—a beta test. It uses local sensors and... uh... atmospheric pressure algorithms to predict tremors. I’m a lead tester for this startup. I didn't start the earthquake; I just got the notification that it was happening ten seconds before the rest of you.”Lucía’s eyes