Jared McConnell had always been the kind of guy people called “compact but dangerous”—five-six on a good day, built like a coiled spring, a natural sprinter and obstacle racer who lived for mud, bruises, and adrenaline. He wasn’t the tallest, but he was always the toughest.

The trip to South America was supposed to be another story to brag about. A jungle endurance race, a remote course, a week off-grid. What he hadn’t planned on was the snake—iridescent black, fangs like needles—sinking itself into his calf before disappearing into the brush.

He woke up in a hut, surrounded by a circle of weathered faces and painted skin. The tribe’s healer fed him bitter teas, packed his leg with pungent herbs, and whispered things Jared didn’t understand. They kept touching his chest, his arms, as if checking for… something. But all he could tell is that he was healed.

He tried to thank them, but never could communicate with them, and nobody in the race knew of a tribe in that jungle.

When he finally got home, the bite had healed completely. But things started changing. Slowly but surely, changing.

First he noticed he wasn’t winded on runs anymore. Then his shirts tightened as his body grew and put on muscle. Then his shirts failed.

He was six feet tall, shredded, powerful.

Things accellerated: after a couple of months he grew to six-nine, thick, superhuman muscles. He was close to doorframes - top and sides!

Not long aftrer, he tried to just avoid them entirely. His body grew the way storms roll over mountains—slow at first, then unstoppable.

Two months after that, he was impossible. A closing on nine feet tall, weight over a thousand pounds, shoulders like boulders, muscles on muscles, layered in ways no anatomy book ever predicted.

He couldn’t step into his house without cracking something. The mirror (the part he could see, anyway) didn’t show a man anymore—it showed a colossus trying to fold himself into a human life.

And his… changes... "right below the belt"?

Jared blushed every time he caught sight of himself. Let’s just say “unreal” didn’t begin to cover it. Towels became useless. Jeans stopped existing. Even gym shorts begged for mercy.

Sometimes he wondered if the bite had poisoned him—or if it was just something the tribe had expected, or perhaps feared.

But now, whenever he looked at his new body… the power, the scale, the impossible strength…

Once there was a boy named Ender,

His fate, a soldier's life to render,

He thought he was just playing games,

But it was more, much to his shame.

For every battle that he fought,

Was not just for fun, but it meant a lot,

It was all real, with life and death,

Ender fought hard with each and every breath.

And then he learned, with a sudden start,

That he was fighting with all his heart,

Against the very race he thought was fake,

A mistake he couldn't undo or shake.

"The Enemy's gate is down," he said,

A phrase that echoed in his head,

It helped him win, and saved the day,

But at what cost? He couldn't say.

Ender's Game, a story so true,

Of battles fought, of right and wrong, too,

With twists and turns, it keeps you guessing,

They were all photos of Caleb Ryder, though sometimes even he had trouble believing it.

The first picture (5'9", 170 pounds) was taken the day he walked into Atlas Growth Clinic, nervous and hopeful, clutching the flimsy pamphlet that promised “targeted physique enhancement.”

He’d joked with the intake nurse that he wanted to look like the monsters on fitness posters—huge, carved, impossible. She’d only smiled and said, “Plenty of men say that. Not many mean it.”

But Caleb meant it.

By the second picture, the treatments were in full swing. His shoulders broadened, his posture straightened, and the world felt suddenly lighter—like he was built to move through it differently. The doctors kept asking if he wanted to “dial it back.” He kept telling them not to touch the settings. He loved being 6'8" - the world was just different now, and he loved being big.

The third picture showed him taller than any man he’d ever met. His lats flared like wings, and he felt power humming in his bones. The clinic staff whispered when he walked by, but no one dared suggest slowing the process anymore.

He was eight feet tall, and if he liked being big before, now! - well, now was just a bigger slice of the same cake. Every minute at the gym, every calorie he ate , all of it was worth it.

And the fourth—Caleb almost laughed seeing it. A giant in gym shorts. A body beyond anything he’d ever dared imagine. A living wish that had come true with interest.

Standing there in the present, he ran a hand over the newest ridge of muscle and grinned wide and bright. That morning he'd measured 8'4" tall, and eight hundred forty three pounds.

“Yeah,” he murmured to himself, “this is exactly what I wanted.”

Milo — First Person

I heard them before I saw them—two heavy, deliberate impacts rolling down the plaza like distant thunder. BOOM. BOOM. Not chaotic. Not crashing. Measured. Controlled. I turned with everyone else, expecting construction, machinery—something explainable.

Instead, they stepped into view.

Police are getting a boost from artificial intelligence, with algorithms now able to draft police reports in minutes. The technology promises to make police reports more accurate and comprehensive, as well as save officers time. The idea is simple: Take the audio transcript from a body camera worn by a police officer and use the predictive text capabilities of large language models to write a…

In the refuge of my isolation,

I find peace within seclusion,

Where thoughts roam free and wild,

And my musings are no longer exiled.

The world I once knew so well,

Has become a darkness to repel,

Mad with greed and endless chase,

A system out of touch with grace.

Ruins spread far and wide,

Agony and sorrow coincide,

And I cannot help but ache,

At this damaged world's fate.

So I retreat to my sanctuary,

Where the mind flows free and airy,

And I continue in my refrain,

Against the system's endless pain.

My words may strike harsh and cold,

But I speak only truths untold,

Ignored for far too long,

In need of a righteous song.

And so I write and scheme and plan,

Hoping to ignite a fiery brand,

Of a better world, a brighter dawn,

Where we live free of dread and scorn.

Though my methods may seem extreme,

I hold fast to my vison and dream,

Of a world where freedom reigns,