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to the hands that open this: may beauty cling to you like a curse, and kindness haunt you like a shadow.
<3

writer, radicalist, fatalist, aspirant
Fiun "Luna" Volnovikov
I am a 16 years old writer from the Philippines!
-just a regular guy writing stories where everything feels a little off. I will be here for the "wrong", the haunted ones, and anyone who thinks beauty should bite back.
let the stars remember your name, and may your silence echo where even the void forgets to listen.
how my stories are written !
I start by writing fragments—brief bursts of emotion, scenes, or phrases—each a strand that could take me somewhere darker, deeper.
I put those concepts into a sequence that feels forbidden or suffocating. like the story was already in existence, and I'm just following its contours.
I translate it to the screen, typing each word out, in other days using dictionary websites to give it deeper meaning.
Next, I strip away the words, substituting surface vocabulary with weightier words—words that resonate in the reader's heart.
I offer depth of meaning, not always visible, but always there—such as blood in water.
And so, I published it. I released the chapter into the world, unedited and raw as all truths are.

Fun Facts about me !
I like reading Manga but mostly books.
I really wanted to be a scientist when i was young, not now.
I think ninjas are very cool.
almost every summer, i take temporary sigilism tattoos on my spine.
often thinks about the end of the world.
loves metal/rock music.
only has 8 books in my shelf.
is a pretty bad student academic wise.
December 15 is my birthday.
plays drums and guitars.
only writes when bored.
why should you read my book?
It isn't just horror. It's beautiful, philosophical dread that lingers.
The characters don’t save the world. They endure it and slowly unravel with it.
The story feels like a broken mirror. Every shard reflects something dangerous and true.
Every line is written like it knows your secrets before you do.
This book whispers to the quietest parts of your mind and waits for them to respond.
It’s horror for thinkers. The kind that haunts you in silence, not with screams.
The prose doesn’t try to impress. It bleeds with intent and silence.
There are no heroes here. Just survivors, witnesses, and people pretending not to fall apart.
It doesn't pretend trauma is neat or that recovery is linear.
The narrative dreams with its eyes open. It knows when you’re reading it wrong.
The story isn't afraid to confront what makes you flinch.
You won’t be handed answers. You’ll be left with scars shaped like questions.
It doesn’t trade in hope. It trades in understanding, and sometimes that’s more honest.
You will never look at silence, noise, or dreams the same again.