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It began as research. Just research. The technical approach. One that delivers the content necessary for a hidden culture to seem plausible, even if it’s not. Readers expect perfection from me. They want the experience. They need to be taken on a journey. That’s my job as a writer.Blaine Jacobs is his name. He’s my research. A man who seems as logical and focused as me. A man who agrees to help. A man who, regardless of his stature in the community, seems to offer a sense of realism to this strange section of society. And even if he does occasionally interrupt my data with dark brooding eyes and a questionably filthy mouth, what does it matter? It’s just research, isn’t it? It’s not real. None of this is. Nothing will come of it or change my mind.
So why am I confused?I’m becoming lost.Falling apart.
And Blaine Jacobs, no matter how calm he might have seemed at first, now appears to linger on the edges of sanity, pushing my boundaries with every whispered word.