Quiet, speculative stories about the edges of things.

Second Contact is a quiet cosmic horror about discovery without mercy, intelligence without empathy, and the realisation that the universe did not just notice us—it corrected for us long ago. When the sky finally falls silent, humanity is left to confront the most disturbing possibility of all.

Silence was never absence, it was supervision.

Reality isn’t expanding.

It’s contracting.

As invisible limits tighten around human decision-making, ordinary people begin to sense that fewer futures are available than before. There is no enemy to fight—only a system quietly preventing catastrophe by restricting how much truth humanity can hold at once.

The Contraction is a disturbing, intelligent exploration of controlled reality, collective knowledge, and the price of revelation. It is not a story about the end of the world—but about why the world has been carefully prevented from ending before.

Last Light, Held is set at the end of everything.

At the edge of a primordial black hole hangs a vast orbital station—an impossible city of rings, spines, and scaffolds, held in place by gravity pumps that resist the final collapse of the universe. It is the last place where time still moves forward, the last light not yet surrendered to the dark. Millions live here. None of them chose to.

There are no heroes here, only custodians of delay. Every story asks the same question from a different angle: Who has the right to decide when the light is let go?

Bleak, intimate, and unsettlingly human, Last Light, Held is not about saving the universe. It is about what people do when survival itself becomes an act of defiance—and the end is crowded.

High above the fractured decks of the station, time runs clean. Here, far from the inward pull of the singularity, the station’s rulers live in fast, orderly time. Years pass below while days slip by above. Decisions arrive before their consequences. Suffering resolves itself into graphs, margins, and acceptable loss.

As the station begins to exhibit signs of irreversible strain, three futures compete for legitimacy: continued delay, controlled rebirth, or merciful release. None can be chosen cleanly. All require lives to be written off before they are even lived.

This instalment tells the story of power insulated from consequence, of godhood born from distance rather than intent, and of what happens when those who rule discover that waiting has made them irrelevant. The Still Ones is not about evil rulers or heroic rebellion. It is about what authority becomes when time itself takes sides—and morality arrives too late to matter.

The station has begun to fall.

The gravity pumps can no longer hold indefinitely. The delay that once sustained the last remnant of the universe has become a liability, consuming structure, people, and meaning alike. Entire districts vanish between reports. Others live out full generations before the warning reaches them. As parts of the station are consumed by the singularity, arguments fracture along temporal lines. Votes arrive after decisions. Orders are obeyed by people already dead.

Resistance no longer seeks victory, only leverage over how the end will be remembered. Engineers make irreversible changes without permission. Parents choose what truth their children are allowed to die with. Time itself becomes the antagonist, arriving unevenly, refusing consensus.

In the end, there is no heroic solution, no clean escape—only a final act that must be performed by people no more qualified than those they condemn. When the Light Is Released is not about how the universe ends. It is about how long humanity insists on holding it—and what is lost in the waiting.

The light will go out. What matters is who lets go.

Sam has always believed there was something wrong with him. Crowded rooms feel unbearable. Sounds arrive too loudly, too sharply. Patterns appear where others see noise. Doctors call it anxiety. Therapists call it dissociation. Sam calls it exhaustion—and spends his life trying to stay unnoticed.

Until the night he runs.

As the truth emerges, Sam learns that humanity was never alone—and never accidental. Long ago, something powerful and desperate shaped the species into a contingency plan: a forward-deployed intelligence, scattered across a planet and left dormant. A vanguard. But the war they were meant for may never come, and the systems built to protect humanity have decided that some people are better contained than understood.

Vanguard is a tense, intimate science fiction novel about identity, control, and the cost of being born slightly ahead of your time. It is not a story about saving the world—but about what it takes to delay its collapse, and who pays the price for buying everyone else a little more time.

What if one of the most trusted assumptions in modern physics came with fine print?

For over a century, the speed of light has been treated as a universal constant—an unbreakable rule underpinning everything from relativity to our understanding of the size and age of the universe. It works beautifully. It predicts accurately. It feels settled.

This book asks a simple, unsettling question: what if it's only locally true?

Blending rigorous curiosity with playful thought experiments, The Speed of Light (Terms and Conditions Apply) explores what might happen if fundamental constants are contextual rather than absolute—shaped by spacetime, density, and interaction rather than decree. Along the way, it revisits wave–particle duality, the observer effect, time, distance, gravity, and energy, not to overthrow modern physics, but to gently loosen a few assumptions we rarely notice we're making.

This is not a claim of discovery, nor a rejection of established science. It is an invitation: to explore how much of reality depends on the tools we use to measure it—and what might become possible if even one "constant" turns out to have terms and conditions.