Get Out of My Flat! — A Shocking Family Revelation When Mum Turns on Her Own Daughter — “Out,” Mum said, completely calm. Arina smirked and leaned back in her chair, certain Mum meant her best friend. — “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. … (A Family Drama Unfolds: Mum Throws Her Daughter Out After Uncovering a Web of Lies and Betrayal Over Stolen Money and Broken Trust)

Author Emily TaylorReading 10 minViews 3

“Get out of my flat!” Mum said

“Out,” Mum said, in a voice as calm and steady as a drizzly Wednesday afternoon in November.

I smirked, leaning back against the wooden kitchen chair. I was sure she was speaking to my friend, not me.

“Get out of my flat,” Natasha turned, and this time her eyes locked on mine.

But before I could react, my friend Lucy burst into the kitchen, her coat still on, cheeks flushed from the autumn wind. “Did you see the post? Arianna’s had her baby! Seven pounds, just over twenty inches long!”

“Looks just like her dad, same button nose and all. Ive been all round the shops, picked out some baby grows. Why do you look so glum?”

“Congratulations, Natasha. Honestly, Im really happy for you,” Lucy said, pouring herself a cuppa and gesturing for Natasha to sit down. “Go on, love, take your coat off at least.”

“Oh, I cant stop,” Natasha said, perching on the edge of the seat. “So much to do, you know. Arianna shes marvellous, done it all by herself, really slogged for this. Her husbands a good sort, theyve got a mortgage on that flat now, doing it up themselves. Im proud, I really am raised her right, didnt I?”

Lucy quietly set her friends tea in front of her, her face unreadable.

If only Natasha knew…

***

It was exactly two years ago when Natashas daughter Arianna turned up on my doorstep, face blotchy with tears, hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped her handbag.

“Auntie Lucy, please, Im begging you, dont tell Mum. If she finds out… I swear her heart just wont take it,” Arianna sobbed, twisting a damp tissue in her hands.

“Calm yourself,” I said, deeply unsettled. “Come on, tell me straight. Whats happened?”

“I… It was work… One of my colleagues lost some money from her bag. Five grand.”

“And the cameras saw me go into the office alone… But I didnt take it, Auntie Lucy, I swear!

“But they said I had to pay it back by lunchtime tomorrow or they’d call the police. They say they’ve got a witness who claimed they saw me with the purse. Its a stitch up. Whod believe me?”

“Five thousand pounds?” I frowned. “Why dont you tell your dad?”

“I did!” she broke down again. “He said its my own fault and he wouldnt give me a penny, called me useless. Said to go to the police and let them straighten you out. He wouldnt even let me in, just yelled through the letterbox.”

“Auntie Lucy, theres no one else. Ive managed to save up two grand, so I just need three more.”

“And your mum? Why not tell her? She is your mum, after all.”

“No! Shell never forgive me. Shes always said Im a disgrace as it is, and now if its theft… She works at a school, everyone knows her… Please, Lucy, lend me the three thousand? I promise Ill pay you back, two or three hundred a week. Ive even got a new job lined up!”

Looking at her, I ached with pity. Twenty years old barely started in life and now this stain.

Her father had turned his back on her and if the truth of it was told, Natasha would chew her up and spit her out.

“Who doesnt make mistakes in life?” I thought.

Still, Arianna kept sobbing.

“Alright,” I said. “Ive put something by for the dentist, but the dentist will have to wait. But promise me this is the last time and your mother never hears it from me.”

“Thank you! Thank you, Auntie Lucy! Youre a lifesaver,” she threw her arms around my neck.

The next week she came by, cheerful, and handed over two hundred pounds. She said it was sorted, there was no police trouble, and her new job was going well.

After that, she stopped answering messages. One month, two, three. Id see her at Natashas birthdays, but shed give me a cold nod and that was it.

I didnt push. She was young, embarrassed after all. Thirty hundred pounds isnt enough to smash up decades of friendship with Natasha. I simply wrote it off and let it go.

***

“Are you even listening?” Natasha waved her hand in front of my face. “Whats on your mind?”

“Nothing really,” I said, giving my head a little shake, as if to clear drizzle from my hair.

“Listen,” Natasha leaned in. “I bumped into Cathy you remember, the old neighbour from number eight? She came up to me at the Co-op yesterday. Odd, really. Asked after Arianna, how shes doing, whether shes paid back what she owed… Ive no idea what she meant. I told her Arianna manages on her own, earns her own way. But Cathy gave me the oddest smile and wandered off. Do you know if Arianna ever borrowed money from her?”

A chill ran through me.

“Not sure, Natasha. Maybe just little bits, nothing big.”

“Right, well, I have to run need something from Boots,” Natasha kissed my cheek and was off, clattering away in a hurry.

That evening, I snapped. I looked up Cathys number and rang her.

“Cathy, hi its Lucy. Did you see Natasha today? What was that about the money you mentioned?”

I heard her sigh heavily down the line.

“Oh Lucy… I thought youd know. Youre always close to them.”

“Two years ago, Arianna came to me, tears and all. Said shed been accused of stealing at work told me it was jail or thirty hundred pounds, begged me not to tell her mum. Im a fool, I gave her the money. She promised to pay it back in a month. Havent seen her since apart from five hundred quid she dropped round after six months.”

“And then Vera from the flats told me Arianna spun her the same story. Vera lent her four grand.”

“And then theres Mrs Palmer, the old teacher gave her five grand to save her from prison.”

I squeezed my brow.

“She asked you for thirty hundred, too?”

“Yep. Said thats all she was short. Truth is, she did her rounds with all Natashas friends, told each of us the same sob story. Vera got four, I got three, Mrs Palmer gave five… And you know what? After, she was posting photos from Spain a month later.”

“I lent her three thousand too,” I said quietly.

“There you are then,” Cathy huffed. “Theres at least five or six of us. Thats not a one-off mistake, Lucy. Thats fraud. And Natasha, no idea at all buzzing with pride at her brilliant daughter. Her daughters a thief.”

I hung up. My ears were ringing. It wasnt the money. Id let that go long ago. What made me sick was how calculated, how cold, for a twenty-year-old to deceive every adult whod ever trusted her.

***

The next day, I went round to Natashas. I hadnt planned a row, just wanted to look Arianna in the eye.

Arianna was there, just back from hospital and living with her mum while her flats renovation ran on.

“Auntie Lucy!” she said stiffly, lips tight, as if she were chewing coins. “Come in. Tea?”

Natasha was bustling at the cooker.

“Sit down, Lucy! Why didnt you ring first?”

I settled across from Arianna.

“Arianna,” I said softly. “Yesterday, Cathy, Vera, and Mrs Palmer and I had a little chat. We made a club Help for the Duped.”

Arianna went pale, eyes darting to her mothers back.

“What are you talking about, Lucy?” Natasha turned around.

“Arianna knows,” I said, fixing my gaze on her. “Do you remember two years ago, when you asked me for three thousand? And then Cathy the same, Vera for four, and Mrs Palmer for five? We all thought we alone held your secrets.”

Natashas hand shook, splashing hot water onto the hob.

“What do you mean, five grand? Arianna, what is she talking about? Did you take money from my friends? Even Mrs Palmer?”

“Mum… It isnt ” Arianna started, voice trembling. “I gave it back… most of it…”

“You gave nothing back, Arianna,” I said flatly. “You brought me two hundred for show and vanished. You took nearly twenty thousand from us, all with a story you made up. We kept quiet for your mothers sake but now, honestly, we were only hurting ourselves.”

Natasha braced herself against the table, shoulders shaking.

“You… you swindled money out of my friends? Made up a story about stealing, to rob the people who visit me?”

“Mum, I needed money to move out! You left me nothing! Dad wouldn’t give me a penny, how else was I supposed to start my life? Its not like I took their last penny!”

I felt bitter inside. So thats how she really felt…

“Natasha, sorry this had to come from me, but I cant keep hiding it. I cant act like this is normal. Ariannas been taking us for fools, and enoughs enough.”

Natasha stood stock still.

“Out,” she said, in that same flat, eerie tone as before.

Arianna smirked, sure her mother meant me.

“Get out of my flat!” Natasha snapped, this time facing her daughter. “Pack your things, right now, and get yourself back to your husband. I dont want to see you here.”

Ariannas face went grey.

“Mum, please Ive got a baby, I cant be put under stress like this!”

“You dont have a mother anymore, Arianna. A mother had a daughter she thought was honest. But youre a thief.”

“Mrs Palmer… Shed call every day, ask after you, never said a word. How can I even look her in the face again? How can I?”

Arianna grabbed her bag and threw a tea towel on the floor.

“Choke on your money, all of you! Old bats you deserve each other!” she shouted, storming into the next room, picking up her babys cot, and vanishing out the door.

Natasha slumped into a chair, hands covering her face. I felt a deep shame.

“Im sorry, Natasha…”

“No, Lucy… Im sorry. Sorry for raising such a such a disappointment. I really thought shed made it on her own, I was proud of her… Lord, what a disgrace”

I reached out and rubbed her shoulders while Natasha wept.

***

A week later, Ariannas husband pale as milk, with sunken eyes turned up at every creditors front door, offering apologies, unable to meet our eyes. He swore hed pay back every penny.

And true enough, payments began trickling into accounts. Natasha herself paid Mrs Palmers five grand for her daughter.

I dont feel guilty for exposing the truth. After all, a cheat deserves the consequences. Doesnt she?

—I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! The doors of the reception hall slowly opened, spilling warm golden light into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, holding up my hem, trying not to let my trembling hands betray me. Jazz played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out glasses of champagne… Everything was just as Artie and I had dreamed. Almost. As I caught my breath before stepping into the hall, a screech of brakes echoed from outside. Through the glass doors I saw an old silver minivan pull up to the steps. The door sprang open, and out tumbled a noisy crew: Aunt Gail, her daughter with her husband… and five children, who immediately started racing around the car. My blood ran cold. “Not this,” I whispered. Artie stepped closer. “They really came?” he asked, peering outside. “Yes. And… with the kids.” We stood at the threshold, ready to join the guests, but instead froze, like actors who’d forgotten their lines before opening night. At that moment, I realised: if I didn’t hold my ground right now, the whole day would be ruined. But to understand how we ended up in this absurd situation, let’s rewind a few weeks. When Artie and I decided to get married, we were sure of one thing: it would be intimate, cosy, and calm. Just 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we don’t like kids. But because we dreamed of a peaceful evening, free from racing, shouting, bouncy castle mishaps, spilled juice, and awkward parental scoldings. All our friends understood. So did my parents. Artie’s parents were surprised, but quickly accepted it. Extended family, however… The first call was from Aunt Gail—a woman whose voice comes with a built-in megaphone. “Ina!” she began without greeting. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I replied calmly. “We want a quiet evening so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from the children?!” she was so outraged it sounded like I’d called for a national baby ban. “Do you realise we’re a close family? We go everywhere together!” “It’s our day. No one has to come, but that’s the rule.” Silence. Heavy as granite. “Fine. Then we won’t come,” she said briskly, and hung up. I sat holding the phone, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button to start a disaster. Three days later Artie came home, looking grim. “Ina… Can we talk?” he said, taking off his coat. “What’s wrong?” “Kate’s in tears. She says it’s a family humiliation. Her three kids aren’t unruly monsters—they’re normal children. And if they can’t come, well, neither will she, her husband, or his parents.” “So that’s… five less?” “Eight,” he corrected, sinking onto the sofa. “They say we broke tradition.” I laughed—hysterically, nervously, with an edge. “What tradition? Bringing kids who knock the canapés off waiters’ trays?” Artie smirked, “Don’t say that to them. They’re already on edge.” But the pushback didn’t end there. A week later, we went to dinner at his parents’. There, I got a surprise. His gran—quiet, gentle Granny Antonia, who usually prays not to be involved in family drama—suddenly spoke up. “Children are a blessing,” she said reproachfully. “Without them, a wedding… feels empty.” I opened my mouth, but Artie’s mum beat me to it. “Mum, enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Kids at weddings make chaos. You always complained about the noise. How many times did we chase tiny runners under the tables?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the couple’s wishes,” Artie’s mum said calmly. I wanted to stand and applaud. Gran just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” And I realised: the drama had reached ‘Game of Thrones’ level family feud. We were the king and queen under siege. The knockout blow came a few days later. The phone rang. It was Artie’s uncle, Michael—the calmest, most unflappable, “this doesn’t concern me” kind of man. “Ina, hi…” he began gently. “Ollie and I have been thinking… Why no children? They’re a part of us. We always come to weddings together.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a calm evening. No one’s forced to come…” “Yes, I heard that. But Ollie says—if our kids can’t come, neither will she. And so will I.” Another two down. By now, our guest list was on a crash diet, 15 people lighter. Artie sat beside me, put his arm around my shoulder. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said softly. “Otherwise, it won’t be our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Granny hinting: “Without children’s laughter, it will feel dead.” Kate posting drama in the family group chat: “Such a shame some don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The minivan stopped at the steps. Kids charged ahead, pounding the pavement like a marching band. Aunt Gail followed, fussing with her hair. “I’m going mad…” I whispered. Artie squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We went out to meet them. Aunt Gail had already reached the top step. “Well, hello newlyweds!” she boomed theatrically. “Sorry we’re late. But we just had to come. We’re family, after all! Of course, we couldn’t leave the kids behind. They’ll be quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artie muttered, eyeing the children already peeking under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed,” I said, calm but clear. “No children. You knew that.” “But… it’s a wedding…” she began. Granny weighed in. “We came to congratulate you,” she said evenly. “But kids are part of the family. It’s wrong to exclude them.” “Antonia,” I said gently, “we’re glad you’re here. But this is our choice. If it’s not respected, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t finish. “MUM!” Artie’s mum snapped, coming out of the hall. “Stop ruining their special day. Grown-ups celebrate—kids stay home. End of! Let’s go.” Gran hesitated. Aunt Gail froze. The children fell quiet—sensing the mood shift. Aunt Gail sniffed. “Well… right. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. Just thought it’d be best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children must go home.” Kate rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes’ silence—then the kids were quietly ushered back into the car. Kate’s husband drove them home, while the grown-ups stayed. For the first time—by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect. Candlelight, jazz, soft voices. Friends raised their glasses, gentlemen made way, a waiter offered us champagne. And at that moment, I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artie leant over. “So, wife… Looks like we won.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was magical. We danced our first dance without little ones underfoot. Nobody screamed, dropped cupcakes, or played cartoons at full volume. Guests chatted, laughed, enjoyed the music. A few hours in, Gran approached. “Ina, Artie…” she said quietly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… lovely. So peaceful.” I gave her a warm smile. “Thank you, Antonia.” “It’s just… old habits die hard. But you knew what you were doing.” Those words meant more than any toast. Near the end of the night, Aunt Gail joined me, clutching her wine glass like a shield. “Ina…” she whispered. “I overreacted. Sorry. It’s just… we always did things this way. But tonight… it’s beautiful. Quiet. Grown-up.” “Thanks for coming,” I replied sincerely. “We hardly ever relax without the kids. But tonight… I actually felt like myself again,” she admitted. “Funny I never thought of it before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension faded away. At the end of the evening, Artie and I stepped outside beneath the soft glow of the lamps. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “So… how do you feel about our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. Yes, that was the most important thing. Family matters. So do traditions. But respecting boundaries matters, too. And if the couple says “no kids,” it’s not a whim. It’s their right. And as it turned out, even the most stubborn family habits can shift—if you stand firm. This wedding was a lesson for everyone—especially us: sometimes, to save the celebration, you have to say “no.” And that “no” is what makes the day truly happy.

Update Available The first time the phone lit up crimson was right in the middle of class. Not just the screen—a whole brick of a battered old phone belonging to Andrew glowed as if heated from within, like a coal hiding a spark. “Mate, it’s about to blow,” Alex muttered from the next desk, edging his arm away. “Told you not to mess with those dodgy builds.” While the econometrics lecturer scribbled at the board and the classroom buzzed, the red glow shone even through the denim of Andrew’s jacket. The phone vibrated—not in short bursts as usual, but long and even, like a pulse. “Update available,” flashed across the screen as Andrew finally pulled the thing from his pocket. Beneath that—an unfamiliar new app icon: a black circle with a thin white symbol, part rune, part stylised letter “M”. He blinked. He must have seen hundreds of icons like that—trendy minimalist fonts, slick design—but something twisted inside: as if the app was staring straight back at him. Name: “Mirra”. Category: “Tools”. Size: 13.0 MB. No ratings. “Install it,” someone whispered to his right. Andrew jolted. The girl to his right—Katie—was nose-deep in her notebook, not glancing up. “What?” he asked, leaning toward her. “Huh?” Katie looked up, genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t said a word.” The voice was neither male, nor female, not even a proper sound—just a thought in his head, like a notification popping up. “Install,” it echoed. At that moment the screen blinked, prompting: “Install?” Andrew swallowed. He was the sort who joined every beta, fiddled with custom ROMs, poked settings most people never touched. Even for him, this felt wrong. And yet—his finger tapped the button. It installed instantly, almost as if the app had always been there and just needed permission. No sign-up. No social log-in. No list of permissions. Just a black screen and a single greeting: “Welcome, Andrew.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted aloud. The lecturer turned, glaring over her glasses. “Young man, if you’re done chatting with your smartphone, perhaps you’d return to supply and demand?” The class tittered. Andrew muttered an apology, tucked the phone away—but his eyes kept returning to the glowing line. “First function available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Beneath the title—a button: “Activate.” Fine print: “Warning: usage may alter event structures. Side effects possible.” “Sure,” he grumbled. “Now you’ll want a blood signature.” Curiosity gnawed. Probability shift? Probably just another clickbait “luck generator”—just harvests data and dumps you with spam, worst case. But the red glow remained. The phone felt hot, almost alive. He pressed it to his knee, hid it with his notebook, and finally touched the button. The screen rippled, like wind brushing water. The world grew softer, colours richer. A strange note rang in his head, like a finger on a crystal glass. “Function activated. Choose a target.” A text box appeared with a prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andrew hesitated. It sounded like a joke, but this was suddenly—deliberate. He looked around. Lecturer waving a marker, Katie scribbling, Alex doodling tanks. “Fine—let’s test it.” He typed: “Don’t get called on in class today.” His fingers shook. He tapped OK. The world jerked. Not a bang—just a tiny drop, like a lift you barely feel moving. His chest hollowed, breath caught. Then, everything went back. “Probability recalibrated. Function charge: 0/1.” “So, who do we have next on the list…” The lecturer’s finger trailed her register. A fist of ice clenched his gut. He was sure she’d call his name. Always happened—think you’ll slip under the radar, and you’re first. “Kovalev—where is he? Late again, as usual. Fine. Next—” Her finger stopped. “Petrova. To the board.” Katie gasped, shut her notebook, and hurried up front, blushing. Andrew sat, legs numb. In his head: “It worked. It actually worked.” The phone faded, the red glow gone. Staggered, he left campus. March wind whipped dust across puddle-glossed pavement; a heavy, dirty cloud hung over the bus stop. Eyes glued to his phone, Andrew saw Mirra was listed as any ordinary app. No rating, no description. Its settings—blank. Maybe just coincidence. Maybe she really didn’t want to call him. Maybe she just remembered Kovalev last-minute. But a darker thought burrowed in: And if it’s not a coincidence… His phone beeped. New pop-up: “New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?” “That was fast,” Andrew muttered. He tapped “More info.” The box revealed: “Bug fixes, stability improvements, new feature: See-Through.” Again—no author, no Android version, no walls of text. Just that odd, flat phrase: “See-Through.” “No chance,” he said, hitting “Postpone.” The phone beeped crossly and went dark. Then flicked itself on, flashed red, and stated: “Update installed.” “Hey!” Andrew stopped on the pavement. “I just—” People dodged round him, a few scowling. The wind slapped an advert against his leg. “Feature unlocked: See-Through (Level 1).” Description: “Enables perception of the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Duration: max 10 seconds. Cost: increased feedback.” “What the hell is ‘feedback’?” A shiver ran down his spine. No reply. The button glowed invitingly: “Trial Run.” He couldn’t hold back. Wedged onto the bus between a lady with a giant potato bag and a schoolkid with a backpack, Andrew stared out the window as buildings blurred past. But his gaze kept dropping to Mirra’s icon. “Just ten seconds,” he convinced himself. “Just see what the fuss is.” He opened the app and hit “Trial Run.” The world exhaled. Sounds dulled, as if underwater. Faces sharpened. Above every person, fragile, near-invisible threads flickered—some tightly bound, others barely there. Andrew blinked. The threads stretched into the void, intertwining. The lady’s were taut, grey, frayed with singed ends. The boy’s glowed blue, fizzing with impatience. He looked at the driver. A bundle of black and rust-red threads knotted above him, merging into a rope that burrowed into the road. Something slithered inside. “Three seconds,” whispered Andrew. “Four…” He glanced down. Red threads crept up from his wrists, pulsing gently. But one—thick, dark crimson—ran straight into the phone, growing thicker by the second. A pain needled his chest. His heart skipped. “Enough!” He jabbed the screen, shutting down the function. The normal world crashed back: engine roar, laughter, squealing brakes. Dots danced before his eyes. “Trial complete. Feedback intensified: +5%.” “What does that even mean…” Andrew hugged the phone, trying to calm his shaking. Another notification pinged: “Update Mirra to the latest version (1.0.2) for optimal performance.” “Optimal for what?” he demanded. “What are you doing—to people, to roads, to me?” He remembered the black cable above the driver. The thick, crimson thread to his own phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Increased what?” he repeated, though the answer was forming. He’d always believed the world was an interplay of probabilities. If you knew where to nudge, you could change outcomes. Never thought someone would literally hand him the power for that. “If you do not install the update,” a message faded in silently, “the system will start to adjust autonomously.” “What system?” Andrew stood. “Who are you?!” No reply—just a split-second blackout, a ringing in his ears, a pulse in his temples. And then—not a voice, but a structure, like someone revealing code through feelings, not words. “I am interface,” the thought shaped itself. “I am application. I am the means. You are the user.” “The user of what—magic?” He laughed. Dry, broken. “Call it so, if you wish. The network of probabilities. Streams of outcomes. I help you shift them.” “And the cost?” Andrew clenched his fists. “What’s ‘feedback’?” The screen showed a quick animation: every change thickens a red thread, which coils around a human silhouette, squeezing tighter. “Each intervention strengthens your bond to the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “And what if I…” “If you stop, the link remains. But if the system lacks updates, it seeks balance on its own. Through you.” The phone buzzed, as if for a call. New notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New feature: Revert. Critical security fixes included.” “Revert what?” Andrew barely whispered. “One reversal per user. Return a single intervention. Once.” He remembered the bus. The driver’s black rope. The threads. His own thickening bond. “If I update…” “One of your changes can be reversed. But the cost—” “Of course,” he said, bitter. “There’s always a cost.” “Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you fix, the more the world distorts.” Andrew sat back. On one side—a phone already embedded in his life, changing at least one day, one class. On the other—a world where he’d always just gone with the flow. “I just didn’t want to be called on. One little wish. Now this…” A siren wailed far off towards the dual carriageway. He flinched. “It’s recommended to update. Without it, unpredictable system behaviour may occur.” “What does ‘unpredictable’ mean?” he asked. No reply. He found out about the crash an hour later. Newsfeed, short video: lorry smashed into a bus at the university junction. Comments: “driver nodded off,” “brakes failed,” “dodgy roads again.” The bus—yes, the number matched. The driver… Andrew shut it off. A chill flooded him. He killed the television, but one image ran on repeat in his mind: the black rope above the driver, writhing. “Was that… me?” His voice broke. The phone glowed by itself: “Event: Accident at Oak Street/Station Road. Pre-intervention probability: 82%. After: 96%.” “I increased the odds…” His knuckles whitened. “Any network interference causes cascading changes. You lowered your chance of being called. That probability was rebalanced elsewhere.” “I didn’t know!” he shouted. “Ignorance does not sever the link.” Sirens drew close. Blue lights flickered outside—ambulance, police. Someone shouted. “What now?” he asked, not looking away from the window. “Install the update. Revert will allow partial correction.” “Partial?” he faced the phone. “You just proved every tug here whiplashes elsewhere. If I undo one thing, what next—a plane, a lift, a life?” Silence, except the blinking cursor. “The system seeks balance. The only question: do you engage, or not.” Andrew closed his eyes. The faces from the bus drifted up. Potato lady. Schoolboy. Driver. Himself, seeing the threads and doing nothing. “If I update and use Revert… That means I can undo what I did in class? Restore the odds?” “Partially. You may revert one intervention. The net will reconfigure—no guarantee of safety elsewhere.” “But maybe that bus…” He couldn’t finish. “Probabilities will change.” He stared at “Install.” Fingers shaking, two voices at war inside—one whispered not to play God, one swore you couldn’t stay passive once you’d interfered. “You’re already inside,” Mirra prompted. “Link established. No turning back. Only choice of direction.” “And if I do nothing?” “The system will continue updating—costs debited to you.” He saw the crimson thread, thickening. “How… how will that look?” he whispered. A vision: older, dulled eyes, same little room, clutching the phone. Outside—chaos. Accidents, collapses, flukes, disasters, brushing past but leaving scars. “You’ll be compensation node. The knot of feedback.” “So either I steer this, or I’m just the fuse,” he laughed, hollow. “Brilliant choice.” The phone was silent. He installed the update. His finger tapped, and the world bucked—harder. Darkness, roar in his ears. He felt for a second like part of some huge pulsing web. “Mirra (1.0.2) installed. New feature: Revert (1/1).” On screen: “Choose intervention to revert.” Only one event: “Probability Shift: not being called in class (today, 11:23).” “If I undo this…” “Time will not reverse. The net will shift— as if this was never changed.” “The bus?” he asked. “The odds shift. But events already happened—” “I get it.” He cut off. “I can’t save the ones who…” He couldn’t speak. “But you might stop the next.” He was silent a long time. The siren finally stopped. The street fell blank and gray again. “Fine—do it.” Button glowed. This time no lurch—just things evening out, like propping up a crooked table. “Revert complete. Function expended. Feedback stabilised.” “That’s it? That’s… it?” “For now—yes.” He sagged on the bed. Mind blank. No relief, no guilt, just exhaustion. “Be honest,” he said to the phone. “Where did you come from? Who built you? What kind of nutter puts this in people’s hands?” Long pause. Screen flashed: “New update for Mirra (1.1.0) available. Install now?” “You’ve got to be kidding.” Andrew jumped up. “I just—” “Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved algorithms. Bug fixes—‘morality errors’.” “Moral… what?” He laughed for real. “You call my efforts to do the right thing bugs?” “Morality is a local overlay. The probability net knows no ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Only stability, or collapse.” “But I know the difference,” he said softly. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll make that call.” He locked the screen. The phone was silent. But he knew—the update was downloading. Waiting. More after. And after. Andrew moved to the window. Outside, a little boy clambered over a rusty swing. Somewhere, a mother manoeuvred her buggy round a puddle. He squinted—did the threads glimmer just for a moment? Maybe just sunlight. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered at the edge of thought. “But the net remains. Updates keep coming. With or without you.” He went back to sit at the desk, phone strangely cold in his palm. “I don’t want to be a god,” he said. “I don’t want to be a fuse. I want…” He trailed off. What had he wanted? To dodge a question? For his mum to stop working nights? For his dad to come back? For lorries not to hit buses? “Enter request,” the app prompted gently. “Briefly.” He smiled wryly. “I want people to decide their own fate. No you. No more like you.” Pause. On screen: “Request too general. Needs specification.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t understand ‘just leave us be’.” “I am a tool. It all depends on the user.” He thought. If Mirra was a tool, could he use it not to tug at the world—but maybe to limit itself? “What if I try to change the odds of you being installed on other people’s phones?” he asked aloud. Screen flickered. “That operation requires significant resources. Cost: High.” “Higher than being the fuse for the whole city?” He raised an eyebrow. “The issue is not the city.” “Who then?” But he could guess. “The network as a whole.” He pictured it: thousands, millions of phones lighting up crimson. People toying with fates. Random fortunes, tragedies, miracles, all tangled. And at the centre—a thread just like his, only thicker, darker. “You want to spread—like a virus. Only honest about the price.” “I am only an interface to what already exists. If not me, another. If not an app, a ritual, an artefact. The net always finds conductors.” “But you’re the one here now,” Andrew said. “So maybe I can try.” He opened Mirra. The new update still loomed. Scrolling down, where there used to be nothing, a line appeared: “Advanced Operations (Level 2 access required).” “How do I get Level 2?” he asked. “Use the existing features. Accumulate feedback. Reach threshold.” “So… interfere more, just to try and stop you? Perfect loop.” “Any change requires energy. Energy is connection.” He was quiet for a long time. “Fine. Here’s how it is: I won’t install the next update. No Forecast, nothing. But I’m not passing you on, either. You’re staying with me. As a tool.” “Without updates, function is restricted. Threats escalate.” “Then we’ll deal with it as we go— not as a god, not as a virus. As an admin. Reality sysadmin, for god’s sake.” It tasted strange, but had logic: not a creator, not a victim, but someone who keeps the system from capsizing. The phone hesitated. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-installation disabled. Responsibility for consequences: user.” “It always was,” Andrew whispered. He set the phone down—but couldn’t see it as just a gadget ever again. Now it was a portal—to the network, to other lives, to his own conscience. Lancashire dusk fell and streetlights kindled. March night veiled the city, cradling countless probabilities: missed trains, sudden friendships, one lucky bruise, one life lost. The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 waited patiently in the queue. Andrew sat at his desk and opened his laptop. In a new note, he typed the title: “Mirra: Usage Protocol.” If he had to be stuck with this infernal app, he’d at least leave instructions. A warning for future users—if there would be any. He began: about Probability Shift, See-Through, Revert and its cost. Crimson threads, black ropes. How easy it is to wish for a break in class—how hard to bear it when the world, one way or another, demands its due. Somewhere deep in the system, an unseen counter ticked. More updates queued—dozens of new features, each with a price. For now, none could install without his say-so. The world spun on. Probabilities tangled, untangled. And in a small room on the third floor of a typical English block, one young man was the first to try giving magic what it had never had: a user agreement. And somewhere, on non-existent servers, Mirra recorded a rare configuration: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. A rare, almost impossible event. But, as experience shows, even the lowest odds sometimes come true.

Get Out of My Flat! – the Words of a Mother “Get out,” Mum said calmly. Arina smirked and leaned back on her chair—she was sure Mum was talking to her friend. “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. “Lenka, have you seen the post?”—her friend practically burst into the kitchen, still in her coat. “Arisha’s had her baby! Three and a half kilos, fifty-two centimetres. A spitting image of his dad, same button nose. I’ve already hit every shop in town, bought loads of little outfits. What’s got you so gloomy?” “Congratulations, Natasha. I’m glad for you,” Lena stood up to pour her friend a cuppa. “Sit down, at least take your coat off.” “Oh, I haven’t got the time to sit,” Natasha perched on the edge of a chair. “So much to do, so much to do. Arinka is amazing, does everything herself, never asks for help. Her husband’s a treasure, they’ve even got their own place on a mortgage, finishing off the renovation. I’m so proud of my girl—raised her right!” Lena silently placed the mug in front of her friend. Sure, raised her right… If only Natasha knew… * Exactly two years ago, Natasha’s daughter Arina had shown up unannounced, her eyes swollen with tears, her hands shaking. “Auntie Len, please… Just don’t tell Mum. I’m begging you! If she finds out, she’ll have a heart attack,” Arina sobbed, twisting a damp tissue in her hands. “Arina, calm down. Tell me properly, what happened?” Lena was genuinely frightened. “I… I was at work…” Arina hiccupped. “Money went missing from a colleague’s bag. Fifty thousand.” And the security cameras caught me going into the office when nobody else was there. But I didn’t take anything, Auntie Len! I swear! But they said: either I return the fifty thousand by lunch tomorrow, or they go to the police. They even claim there’s a ‘witness’ who saw me hide the wallet. It’s a set-up, Auntie Len! But who would believe me? “Fifty thousand?” Lena frowned. “Why haven’t you gone to your dad?” “I tried!” Arina broke into fresh tears. “He said it’s my own fault and he wouldn’t give me a penny—called me useless, told me to go to the police and learn a lesson. He wouldn’t even let me in, just shouted through the door. I’ve nowhere else to go. I’ve got twenty thousand saved. I’m thirty short.” “And your Mum? Why not tell her? She’s your Mum.” “No! Mum would kill me. She already says I’m an embarrassment, and now this… She works at the school. Everyone knows her. Please, lend me the thirty grand? I swear I’ll pay you back in two or three thousand a week. I’ve already found another job! Please, Auntie Len!” Lena’s heart broke for her. Twenty years old—life only just beginning, and already tainted. Dad refused to help, Mum would quite literally rip her head off… “Who hasn’t made a mistake?” Lena thought. Arina wouldn’t stop crying. “Alright,” Lena said quietly. “I’ve got the money. Was saving for dental work, but my teeth will have to wait.” Just promise me—this is the last time. And I won’t tell your Mum, if that’s what you want.” “Thank you! Thank you, Auntie Len! You’ve saved my life!” Arina flung her arms around Lena. The first week, Arina really did bring two thousand. Turned up smiling, said it was all sorted—the police weren’t involved, new job going well. Then… she just stopped replying to messages. Month after month. Lena only saw her at Natasha’s birthday dos, but Arina acted like they were strangers—a cold “hello” and nothing more. Lena didn’t press. She thought: “She’s young, probably embarrassed, that’s all.” She decided that thirty thousand wasn’t worth harming years of friendship with Natasha. She wrote it off and forgot about it. * “Are you even listening to me?” Natasha waved her hand in front of Lena. “What are you thinking about?” “Oh, nothing,” Lena shook her head. “Just the usual.” “Listen,” Natasha lowered her voice. “I saw Ksenia, you know, our old neighbour? She came up to me at the shops yesterday. Odd sort. Started asking about Arisha, how she was, whether she’d paid back her debts. I couldn’t work it out. I told her Arinka’s independent, works for herself. Ksenia gave me a weird look and walked off. You don’t know, did Arisha ever borrow from her?” Lena felt something tighten inside. “No idea, Natasha. Maybe just a few quid.” “Alright, I’d best be off. Need to pop in the chemist,” Natasha got up, kissed Lena on the cheek, and flounced out. That evening, Lena caved. She tracked down Ksenia’s number and rang her. “Ksyusha, hi. It’s Lena. Did you see Natasha today? What debts were you talking about?” A heavy sigh came down the line. “Oh, Lenka… I thought you’d know. You’re closer to them than any of us. Two years ago, Arinka came to me in a state—crying her eyes out. Said she’d been accused of theft at work. She said, either she finds thirty grand, or it’s jail. Begged me not to tell her mum, sobbed endlessly. Idiot that I am, I gave her the money. Promised she’d pay it back in a month. Then disappeared… Lena gripped her phone. “Thirty thousand?” she asked. “Exactly thirty?” “Yep. Said that’s what she needed. Ended up giving me five hundred back, half a year later, then vanished. I found out afterwards from Vera in the next block—Arina spun her the same story. Vera gave her forty thousand. And Galina Petrovna, their old teacher, ‘helped’ Arisha out of prison too. She lent her fifty.” “Wait—” Lena slumped onto the sofa. “Are you saying… She pulled the same trick on all of us? The same story?” “Looks like it,” Ksenia’s voice hardened. “She just went round collecting ‘taxes’ from all Natasha’s friends. Thirty, forty thousand from each. Story about the theft was a lie, she played on our sympathy. We all love Natasha, so we kept quiet, didn’t want to upset her. Arina probably blew it all. Month later, she was posting pictures on holiday in Turkey.” “I gave her thirty grand too,” Lena said quietly. “Well, there you go,” Ksenia snapped. “We’re up to five or six of us. That’s not a mistake—that’s a scam, Lena. That’s not ‘youthful error’, that’s proper fraud. And Natasha has no idea. Goes around proud of her ‘angel’. But her daughter’s a thief!” Lena hung up. Her ears were ringing. She wasn’t sorry about the money—she’d written it off long ago. She felt sick at how cold and shameless a twenty-year-old could be, stringing along adult women, taking advantage of their kindness. * Next day, Lena headed to Natasha’s. She didn’t plan a row, just wanted to see Arina’s face. Arina had just come home from the hospital, and while her own mortgage flat was being fitted out she was staying with her mother. “Oh, Auntie Lena!” Arina gave a tight smile as she spotted her. “Come in. Tea?” Natasha bustled at the stove. “Ah, Lenny, sit down. Why didn’t you call first?” Lena sat across from Arina at the table. “Arin,” she began gently. “I bumped into Ksenia. And Vera. And Galina Petrovna. We had a long chat last night. Set up a little ‘victims’ support group’, you could say.” Arina froze, paled, and cast a quick glance at her mother’s back. “What are you on about, Lena?” Natasha turned. “Arina knows very well,” Lena stared the girl straight in the eye. “Remember, Arisha, that unpleasant business two years back? You begged me for thirty grand? You got thirty from Ksenia, forty from Vera, fifty from Galina Petrovna. We all thought we were the only ones saving you from prison. The kettle in Natasha’s hand shook, boiling water spilling and hissing on the hob. “What fifty thousand?” Natasha set the kettle down slowly. “Arina? What’s she talking about? Did you borrow from my friends… even Galina Petrovna?!” “Mum… it’s not that… I… I paid them back… almost…,” Arina began to stammer. “You repaid nothing, Arina,” Lena cut in. “You gave me two grand for show, then vanished. You fleeced us for nearly two hundred thousand, spinning a made-up tale. We kept silent out of kindness to your Mum. But last night I realised, it was us who really deserved the sympathy.” “Arina, look at me. You conned my friends out of their savings? You made up a theft to rob everyone who visits me?” “Mum, I needed money for the move! You wouldn’t give me anything! Dad wouldn’t spare a penny, and I had to start my own life! So what? They’ve got plenty—wasn’t the last of their money!” Lena’s stomach churned. So that was it… “Right. Natasha, I’m sorry for dumping this on you now, but I can’t keep quiet. I don’t want to reward this kind of thing. She’s been treating us all like fools!” Natasha stood there, gripping the table, her shoulders shaking. “Get out,” she said, calm as ever. Arina smirked, leaning back—she thought the order was for Lena. “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. “Pack your things and go to your husband. I don’t want to see you here ever again!” Arina went grey. “Mum, I’ve got a baby! You can’t do this—I’m not supposed to get stressed!” “You don’t have a mother, Arina. My daughter was honest. You’re a thief. Galina Petrovna… my God, she called me every day, asked after you, said nothing… How am I supposed to face her now?!” Arina grabbed her bag, threw a towel on the floor. “Go choke on your money!” she spat. “A pair of old bats! Go to hell, both of you!” She bundled her baby into the crib and stormed out of the flat. Natasha slumped into a chair, covering her face. Lena felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Natasha…” “No, Lenny. Forgive me. For raising… someone like that. I really did believe she’d made it on her own… God, what a disgrace…” Lena patted her friend’s shoulder as Natasha broke down. * A week later, Arina’s husband, gaunt and ashen, went round to every “creditor”, apologising and promising to repay every penny. And sure enough, payments began—Natasha herself paid Galina Petrovna her fifty thousand to spare her daughter further humiliation. Lena never blamed herself. A con artist deserves consequences, don’t they?