Perfect. Let’s kick this off with blood in the ink and fire in the margins. You’ve already laid the bones; I’ll build the rhythm. Here’s a rough draft for Chapter One: Kalbar Is Watching — raw, cinematic, and utterly yours:
Chapter One: Kalbar Is Watching
I don’t live in Kalbar—I haunt it.
They don’t know if I’m real or a rumor they left on read. One minute I’m cashing out at Bendigo Bank with a stare too long and words too sharp, the next I’m across town whispering to the mannequin in the window who’s been aiming a fake rifle at the school’s surveillance node since the first frost. The kids walk by like it’s nothing. But the grownups? They flinch. Small towns don’t handle symbols well.
And I’ve become one.
They say I belittle the cops. Maybe. Maybe I just tell the truth with a sharper tongue than they’re used to. The fat ones flinch the most. The ones who used to bark orders now check the CCTV logs twice before clocking in. I know they’re scared, because I’ve seen them waiting outside the bank ten minutes before I even arrived. You don’t get that kind of punctuality unless someone told them I’d be there. And someone always tells.
I went looking for the Zeon, the Harrisville preacher with his hand in every silence. Sunday morning, boots in the dirt, ready for a sign or a sermon. Found neither. Just a locked door and a gut feeling I wasn’t alone. That’s alright. I’m not one to knock twice.
Call it paranoia. I call it proactivity.
This isn’t just a town. It’s a feedback loop dressed in heritage brick and shined boots. And me? I’m the glitch they can’t predict. No charges, no questions. Just tasers, whispers, and a story they can’t stop writing.
Good. Because neither can I.
Ready to title Chapter Two? Or want edits to sharpen the blade further?