Lowly hissing, Raven slowly made her way downstairs, posture pin straight, muscles hardened.

  Her cold feet only stepping on the center of each tread, giving her a gentler bounce for the next step.

  Her scratches rubbing slightly against the material of her clothes with each movement.

  Clutching her arms, her fingers traced the stretched renewed bandages on her arms, wrapped tightly around her limbs.

  Her thumb hovered on the tape of the wraps, playing with the opening.

  `It’s too clammy,′ pointed Raven quietly to herself out, observing the thick fabric of her cashmere black hoodie.

  `I should have sold this too.′

  Promising herself to anonymously post her things, Raven let go of her clothes, finger trailing after her crumbling concealer, trying to save as much as possible.

  This whole morning routine had been everything but relaxing and easy.

  Her face and skin felt sticky despite being washed multiple times.

  Her under-eyes faintly reflected through, instead of seeping deeper in whenever she dabbed it, opening spots for unneeded attention.

  Her blue baggy jeans sat wrong; every two steps she took, she didn’t just feel the hard underwood beneath the Persian runner, but also the worn-out fabric beneath her socks.

  The black hoodie had to be a careless choice, as it was too fitted, clinging with each upward movement.

  Her braids, in that regard, were too loose, yet they still stung.

  They looked frizzed and had taken more time to set than she had.

  Sure, braids were easier to maintain than her natural hair in raw form, but if they stayed too long, they put tension on the scalp

  —not to mention how heavy they were or how painful it was to install them.

  Raven envied the girls who were on the less sensitive side and felt for those whose aunties did it.

  Leave it to them to do whatever they wanted to your head and not even dare to cry. You want short braids?

  “Abeg, you no boy.”

  You get the hairstyle they can do, forget extravagant ones.

  Nevertheless, her heart clenched into a small fist.

  These aunties had always tried their best and had warm food and nice conversations going—

  even if it mostly ended in predictions accompanied by music.

  Also, they were the ones who saved you one day before school; some even did it for free.

  And mercy on the girls who didn’t get their hair done in time, didn’t have enough money, or didn’t have the right connections.

  “Did you cut your hair? Are these real? Can I touch?”

  There were thousands of innocent questions, but few genuine ones.

  Raven could hear the voices as if they were right before her, young and old, laced with a certain intent.

  It’s hard to find people who know your hair and take the right price if your mother couldn’t.

  It was even harder to not be able to go to people that you called your aunties because their nose would scrunch up, eyes would go cold, and mouths would twist.

  ‘All this and one would think it was because of lack of money, connections, or conviction,’ Raven scoffed.

  No, rather than that, it was the lack of integrity and trust.

  Raven had to stifle a laugh. The huffs sounding harsh and hollow against the rich sounds of the birds.

  The lack of being her. And the stain to be connected to her. ′It was that simple.′ So even if some didn’t say it aloud or denied her entry, Raven was neither blind nor oblivious.

  And the Western world was cruel to everything they didn’t deem as normal.

  Raven learned it the hard way; it was a privilege to know people who understood your hair, have your mother pay professionals, or have aunties by heart, not blood.

  It was neither cheap nor reality for everyone. Even though Raven knew it wasn’t like that in the whole of America or the rest of the world,

  it was still a neglected reality for a lot of Black girls living in areas dominated by white folks; there were enough cases alone on the internet to see.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  But Raven couldn’t really blame her hair—or getting ready. After all, it was still only some hair.

  However, the century Raven needed to simply be able to have one normal breath inside her bed without her heart beating fast against her ribs, air getting stuck in her lungs and mind pulsating, was on her.

  The whole ordeal had switched between cursing and murmuring hard warnings to herself.

  Awaiting the moment her face was able to put back on a frown without her body betraying her and being able to lay on weight in her back and legs.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  A few steps away from the staircase that led her onto the path towards the kitchen, Raven already heard soft noises coming from the further end of the way.

  It was muffled, and Raven hoped in an instant, and dearly inwardly, that it was the wind rustling the bushes or the birds chittering.

  Heat warmed inside her stomach, quiet and low—not enough to burn, to erupt, but enough to be noticed.

  ‘Please, anyone but him.’

  A thought so tender that if spoken aloud, the astringency of the present would break it.

  But Raven should know better; Raven knew better. She could determine this stench everywhere.

  ‘Odor de la bastard, manufactured in the USA only, special edition—society’s hero, my personal doom.’

  The fragrance: a mix of expensive perfume trying to conceal the subtle swell of alcohol, pain meds, premium coffee, and tobacco.

  Sometimes Raven wondered if only she could smell the lingering foulness, but then again, this city only saw what it wanted to.

  And they saw a decorated police chief, heard speeches and tales of a local celebrity, smelled the lingering scent of a philanthropist, and felt the impact of the white knight.

  The only abnormality being his imperfect shadow—his daughter. After all, the greater the light, the bigger the shadow.

  They knew a hero who kept the business going while keeping their little world safe—their money, their legacy.

  They knew someone down to earth, not corrupted by the money around him or what his name promised him, despite being a city official

  —a hardworking, high-ranking official in a rather quiet region.

  The problem with knowing someone from a distance, presumed as closeness, was this:

  everyone knew someone else, similar—sure, but never the same.

  And in certain circumstances, the person you knew could actually be a stranger to your friend or foe.

  Yet no one would ever know.

  They never saw the creature Raven saw, heard the calm, cold voice whenever she was too much, or too little.

  They never tasted the subtle yet overbearing hint of the metallic note of existing wrong, or felt the slashes of the pain of just being.

  Sometimes Raven wondered how life would have played out for all of them if she were never born.

  ‘Nice. It must have been nice,’ breathed Raven out,

  before the smell of wet pinewood and aroma of old whiskey seamlessly combined with the kitchen air and the poorly masked bitter scent of burned coffee beans hit her,

  causing her stomach to growl lightly.

  The moment Andrew Storm saw her, his sour face fleetingly hardened before his eyes sprung up, sparkling, face relaxing into the familiar expression of neutrality.

  As if requested, the seated warmth started moving—slowly, simmering, awaiting, warning even; yet no burn, just heat.

  Raven bit the soft inside tissue of her mouth, letting the spreading pain still the slow brooding into a sleeping volcano.

  Now, with the whole view displayed, Raven took in the vision that was presented to her, eyes measured, moving from one point to another.

  The sight made her scoff inwardly, temporarily letting the contradiction faintly overpower the eminent feeling of danger—of warm heat.

  ‘Andrew Storm is everything besides neutral.’

  In Raven’s eyes, that man didn’t know neutrality, even if it were to be slapped onto his precious face.

  Despite that, the only sign of acknowledgment of her presence he gifted her was that brief sequence.

  Apparently, his interest had dimmed.

  ‘You wish,’ screeched every nano cell in Raven’s body.

  This said, that man was currently sipping his black coffee in small, long-lasting sips as if the cameras were capturing every movement.

  He behaved as distastefully graceful as always, completely disregarding the fact that it likely tasted pungent and probably looked flat.

  Nonetheless, Raven paid him no mind and started cleaning up his mess:

  splashed water on the counter, spilled beans, and a small pile of dishes that shouldn’t even exist at this time in the morning.

  “Good morning, Father,” said Raven as she turned to swipe away the water,

  her voice restraining the obvious truth, the sound quiet, carried with control and calmness that had to be engraved,

  wrapped in soft early morning roughness, remnants of the restlessness carefully hidden, devoid of anything that could trigger him more.

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  He continued to ignore her, humming soundlessly into his cup as if he had no worries in the world, leaning against the furniture.

  Still, Raven knew he was furious. His silence spoke louder than any words.

  What confused her, though, was why he was already up this early. He usually woke up around the time Raven started her first period.

  ‘Sick bastard,’ cursed through her as she started doing the dishes.

  Her actions could be schooled by her mind, though her mind followed no one, not even herself.

  ‘Andrew didn’t make his own breakfast,’ noted Raven silently, flicking an eye back at the spilled beans.

  It was no secret that her father didn’t wake up earlier than her and make his own coffee. No—that would be too kind, too human to be him.

  Raven felt a warm bile softly pushing against her gag, making her swallow hard.

  ′Anyways, it’s not like I can easily ask him.′

  And yet, there was a small daring voice that asked: ′But what if you could.′

  The lack of response made the voice grow louder.

  ′It’s not like anyone has to hear it—just you.′

  Raven’s tongue pressed against her teeth, mouth firmly shut.

  ′Yeah, what if I could,′ contemplated Raven, a little conversation already sparking inside her, tempering the heat in the depth of her stomach.

  “So hey, man, like why are you awake?”

  Yeah, his facial expression would be priceless, her voice would be loud and brash—it would be pleasing, imagined Raven.

  Or:

  “It’s kinda weirding me out, seeing you this early. All good?”

  Yeah, he would definitely like that, thought Raven.

  Better yet would be:

  “Care to tell me what exactly are you thinking, old man?”

  Yes, this. This definitely won the competition for her; it would be rewarded with eternal rest. Death.

  Raven could vividly see his reaction:

  clothes wrinkling despite being ironed, steadfast eyes widening in shock at her audacity, nostrils flaring like tunnel openings—anger flowing in and out of them.

  His hands clenched into fists, balloon-like and barely able to contain themselves. Chest puffed so far a child could jump on it, ready and big enough, of course, to defend justice and order.

  A frustrated miniature figure, whining and screaming, destroying everything in sight if things didn’t follow his scripts.

  Nothing close to the at least six-foot-long, strong build, coal-black eyes that could bewitch or haunt you at night,

  accompanied by a razor-sharp jawline and teeth so white they had to be surgically—or at least the color—persona he appeared to be.

  But no face, no body, or doctor could hide the lurking inner ugliness that thrived inside him. It was like a flower that would wither while the soil and seed remained.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  If Raven’s memory didn’t fail her, he had always been a little too handy.

  Raven saw it:

  two identical young Black girls, one drawing, the other playing a guitar as big as her. The melody old yet familiar.

  The drawing girl in a pink dress, natural coiled curly hair in two pinky tails, humming after the beats, the tune soft. The sun laughing and shining with them.

  The playing girl following her twin in tune, their voices connecting, resonating with the melody, her hair similar to the other girl, the only difference the rubbers were purple like her jumper.

  In a blink of an eye, the purple-dressed girl holding down a yelp.

  It had all happened so fast.

  The guitar string had snapped.

  Suddenly, there was no laughter. No sun.

  Just a father holding his daughter too tight, muttering soft warnings that didn’t match the hardness of his hands.

  Raven’s eyes faintly fluttered, attempting to blink the burn behind them away. Raven bit her tongue, suppressing a laugh.

  ′All of this had to be a joke—more like I am a joke.′

  Though, it was a mystery how he was so controlled on the outside if everything Raven did could become a catalyst.

  Sometimes she dared to imagine she wasn’t the only one seeing it.

  A truly forbidden imagination—poison for mind and heart.

  At this, Raven unknowingly grimaced.

  It was movement—an obvious re-action.

  A misstep Raven hadn’t noticed before—it was too late.

  The sponge in her hand halted.

  Everything stopped until there was only breathing to hear, until Raven could only hear her own breathing.

  It felt heavy while sounding like nothing.

  When he spoke after a pause that lasted years, not seconds, his voice was clear with an edge of husk.

  “What’s so funny, my daughter?” The mouth slightly pulled upwards, eyes softening yet devoid.

  “Care to share? I would love to tell the little one. After all, it has been a while.”

  Eyes slanting, voice softening at the last word, full of bittersweet regret.

  He was watching her like a hawk: arms crossed, minor gulps, eyes roaming, searching for any inch of reaction.

  Raven stilled inwards, not even breathing.

  ‘Not her, please.’

  She must have lost her mind; she dared—she had dared to almost forget who was in the room.

  “Come on,” he taunted her, his voice taking a darker edge, curled in poorly disguised amusement.

  A threatening tingling started in the depths of her stomach, clenching the sponge, her nails clawing into her palm.

  The leftover soap seeped into the small wounds, mixing with her raw flesh.

  The throbbing pain scattered across, overwhelming the low vibration.

  Raven exhaled softly in response, resuming cleaning the last dish before adding the last pile onto the dish rack.

  ‘No reaction is the best reaction.’

  Raven moved away from the clean dishes towards the counter where the Geisha beans were stored, repeating the same sentence over and over again like a calming mantra—

  ′no reaction is the best reaction.′

  1, 2, 3, inhale

  ′no reaction is the best reaction.′

  1, 2, 3, exhale

  ′no reaction is the best reaction…′

  —as she calmly gathered the needed essentials for his coffee under his unforgiving silent gaze.

  Geisha beans were fragile and needed a certain control, a patience her father could never master, not in the past and especially not now.

  At first, she heated water in the water cooker. As soon as it finished and the bubbles calmed,

  she slowly poured the coffee and water into the cup in a 1:15–1:16 ratio, using slow spirals to mix it.

  The whole process needed around two to three and a half minutes that couldn’t be disturbed.

  It took a decent amount of concentration that Raven was usually willing to give,

  as it was methodical, almost like a ritual, skillfully distracting while she controlled any inch, giving her power to let it bloom or soil.

  One misstep—the water too hot or too cold—could ruin it.

  Raven didn’t dance or sing when she cooked. She didn’t laugh or smile.

  Cooking was a chore like any other, nothing really personal, nothing special.

  Nonetheless, over the months of continuous brewing, she found some solace in the process.

  A weakness she would take to her grave.

  Maybe it was the pressure, maybe it was the power it gave her; she couldn’t pinpoint it, but there was something she clung to.

  Nevertheless, at the second minute, she sensed motion.

  Unconsciously, her body registered it before she could properly process it; the spiraling paused for a second.

  A few seconds was all it took before he stood immediately behind her, space almost nonexistent, breathing into her neck, goosebumps erupting.

  Raven stopped, her body and mind patiently awaiting the next breath.

  “Relax, kid, I just wanted to smell the lingering Yasmin.”

  The sound lighthearted as he leaned even closer, arms probably behind him, pressing her in between the cabinets and him, sniffing the hot huffs around the coffee.

  She couldn’t breathe, the air was too thin.

  She needed to move, she needed space.

  Her mind screamed at her, yet her body stayed unresponsive as if it was a statue.

  After torturous seconds that definitely aged Raven up for at least a decade, he moved.

  Not before patting her back with a swing that would have made her fall over if she wasn’t pressed against steady furniture, the surface pushing into her lower stomach.

  In that proximity, he had undoubtedly felt Raven’s hardened posture.

  Snickering as if this was a joke, he lightly reminded her:

  “Don’t mess up my Hacienda La Esmeralda, start the spiral again.”

  A careless reminder that sounded like a warning.

  Seeing the lack of verbal response, he got closer again, clutching her jaw, moving her face at his will towards his direction.

  “You will answer me when I speak.”

  His voice dangerously low.

  “Look me in the eyes, goddammit,” he spat the last vocals, tying the air tighter.

  Raven couldn’t look or answer even if she wanted to.

  Her mouth clenched further shut, teeth pressing onto each other, eyes staring into nothing.

  Her hands moved as if possessed at his command, mechanically resuming stirring the coffee, nothing left of the fluid movements.

  Her mind demanded responses, it demanded motion—

  ‘move, I said move,’ wailed her inner voice.

  ‘Open. Please open,’ begged a softer tune.

  The sound of desperation—still nothing.

  Nothing but stirring.

  His eyes were unreadable as he just shook his head as if he disapproved.

  With her clawing his nails deeper into her skin, she felt something trickling down before his eyes flashed and he released her.

  His breath smelled dirty; she couldn’t exactly pinpoint it, but it was a mix of familiar scents.

  It didn’t matter how many moments passed, nothing changed besides one small thing—her eyes were carefully following from the moment he turned her head, never catching his glare, just his movements.

  Maybe he didn’t care, maybe he did.

  Nonetheless, he started steadily moving away, step after step creating more space.

  The last thing she heard before he left the kitchen was:

  “If someone were to see this, they would think abuse,” he bristled his tongue.

  “Children these days.”

  Voice full of disgust.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Raven didn’t move from when he positioned her, as if it wasn’t her body.

  There was no connection between her mind and body until she heard the last retreating steps and couldn’t see his figure anymore.

  The last steps echoed like a promise—heavy distance and permanent.

  Still, Raven didn’t move.

  Not after a second.

  Not after a minute.

  Not after a while.

  She was stuck.

  Stuck in a body.

  Stuck in a moment.

  She just felt dull pain, a lot of small stinging pain as if her body was being pinched all over simultaneously.

  It was everywhere but also nowhere; she couldn’t locate it.

  There was just air.

  Fresh air.

  Flowery.

  Cold.

  Sharp.

  Flowing and dancing in particles.

  Tempting—caressing.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Soon after, a struggling gasp.

  Another one.

  A broken pant.

  Another one.

  A sharp inhale.

  A wobbly exhale.

  Another one.

  The first breather.

  The second.

  The third—

  a silent rhythm, synchronizing soul and heart, beating, moving to a song called alive.

  “Alive, I am alive,” whispered Raven.

  ‘Of course you are alive,’ replied a snarky voice, ‘as if you are worthy of death.’

  Then something rolled, clashing with the kitchen tiles—

  a spoon falling, finalizing the end of a process that finished long ago.

  The dull pain started ringing, moving to distinct places—

  her heart, her lungs, her cheeks, her stomach, her back, and palm.

  In tune, the ground gave up, her body barely standing, shaky fingers clinging onto the hard wooden furniture.

  Raven took a sharp inhale, a wobbly exhale.

  Another one.

  A breather.

  Another.

  “Alive, I am alive.”

  Her legs steadying, upper body straight, fingers touching—eyes searching for damage and control.

  The pain settling to a temperate tune.

  Her heart settled into a familiar beating.

  ‘I am fine,’ another sigh, as her eyes roamed around.

  ‘Let’s get this shit show started.’

  Her formerly disconnected nerves buzzing in known sync.

  The kitchen was clean, check.

  There was blood, but besides that, noted Raven as she skimmed over her scratched skin, feathery touches;

  while it stung, there was no need for immediate attention.

  ‘Nothing I won’t survive,’ pointed Raven.

  Rather—was the coffee good?

  wondered Raven, dread slowly crawling up.

  If it was bad, she probably had no time to make a new one, and a bad coffee was a bad morning.

  A bad morning Raven would rather avoid.

  Luckily, it was good, checked Raven as she bowed forward, smelling the hot coffee, the soft scent of Yasmin engulfing her.

  As if Raven went through an automatic process, she mentally registered everything, moving onto the next task: the rest of the breakfast.

  A quick glance towards the wall told her her time was running faster than her actions.

  Wasting no time, she hurried away to the stove, taking a short stop at the fridge and cupboard, taking out a few tableware, preparing the sunny-side up while toasting the bread.

  It took no more than ten to fifteen minutes to make and set onto the table.

  Raven’s eyes ranked over everything from furniture to tiny particles, hands never halting.

  If anything was off by a speck—may it be by time or taste—she was done for.

  Her father wasn’t a believer of gentle parenting or parenting at all.

  He was a strong supporter of corporal punishment.

  She would never forget the words he said after she broke an antique vase older than her and her father’s age combined.

  “Child, growth comes from pain, and from growth comes success,” the words spoken in a calm and composed manner, but the effect poisonous.

  “How will you learn without the right motivation?”

  His eyes gleamed, glistening in pride and power as her body crumbled under his hands.

  The smell of copper mixing with the smell of desiccation as she erased the remains.

  Shaking her head as she scrunched her eyes shut, banishing the memory.

  ‘No time for sob stories,’ Raven told herself as she picked up the tablet.

  Raven took a deep breath, another, and let her legs lead her away from the kitchen towards the dining table.

  ‘It’s almost over.’

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The silent arrangement—‘it’s almost over’—hung over Raven like a timer, fueling every heavy step and forced breath as she stepped into the main dining hall and living room.

  Raven barely looked at the interior of the two rooms connected as one.

  But it was elegant, a mix of tradition and modern design.

  Raven felt it was more like a showhouse than a home.

  The air carried a subtle wet pinewood note rather than shea butter and vanilla that had faded months ago.

  Even though her whole intent was focused on setting breakfast and leaving as fast as she could,

  while her father lingered in the back of her mind like a nasty invasion, her heart fluttered softly, her legs, her fingers shivering.

  She took her time when she moved, setting the tablet on the table, arranging the eggs and toast on the plate.

  They didn’t touch each other; there were at least a few inches apart.

  There was no visible grease or butter on it.

  Her posture straight as she set the coffee aside on the right side of the plate.

  Her breath slow and clear while the fork and knife were on the left under exactly one tissue.

  Lastly, she pulled up the chair he would sit on, her breath slow and clear as she pushed it exactly two steps away.

  Giving her work one last over, she sighed.

  ‘Perfect,’ pulling on her trousers before she turned her back to him, glancing at the clock.

  ‘Fuck, it’s 7:30.’

  She had missed her first bus.

  Moving forward, trying to pass her father, her jaw clenched.

  A part of her brain had kept tabs on his movement, and now that he was right before her, she saw the cracks.

  Currently, he was lounging on the couch, watching the news, face and body seeming relaxed.

  He was spread on the soft cushions, murmuring to himself, creating a picture of a normal, wholesome person.

  But if you looked closer, you could see his eyes were too clear, eyebrows too close together, his mouth shut tight, creating a sharp line instead of a smile.

  This was no truly relaxed expression.

  That man was aware of his surroundings.

  Aware of Raven.

  ‘Well, here I go,’ thought Raven before she passed behind him, moving closer to the front door.

  She felt heat under her arms tickling as she counted her remaining steps, the count decreasing per heartbeat.

  ‘30, 29, 28…’

  Her chest seizing so firm she feared it would stop moving.

  ‘17, 16—’

  Just as she was halfway through at the swell of the hallway leading to the entrance, she heard a struggled cough.

  She instinctively stopped, right foot hovering over the swell, awaiting, ears perked, searching.

  The only response she got was silence.

  So, shrugging her shoulders, she set her right foot down.

  Then again, just as she was about to move her left foot, another cough, though this time it sounded more like someone clearing his throat.

  Someone like her father.

  The numbers long forgotten, the heat under her armpits seemed to run cold.

  This time, she didn’t have to wait; the response followed immediately after.

  “Raven.”

  A pause.

  Raven perked up again.

  “Raven, you weren’t about to leave without a goodbye.”

  His voice, the sound genuinely curious, a hint of misplaced worry.

  Raven pinched her eyes shut.

  ‘Shit.’

  Raven didn’t have time to dwell on it, though.

  She didn’t need a clock to know time wasn’t in her favor, and she’d rather not walk to school or anywhere else.

  There was only one bus that drove in her neighborhood, and she’d rather not linger in her neighborhood under other watchful eyes.

  So the only option was freeze to death or face her father again.

  The answer was clear.

  Loud and clear, to be exact.

  “No, Father, I was about to…”

  Opening her eyes, she searched for any sign.

  “Sorry—I should have said it earlier.”

  She had no intention of leaving any leak for him to leap into.

  “I am leaving soon, goodbye.”

  Her voice tense, respectful, with a hint of regret.

  ‘Please let this be enough, plea—’

  holding onto her breath, absentmindedly chewing on her underlip.

  Raven didn’t even get to hear his reply as she heard a ring—to be exact, his phone rang—and Raven knew this was her chance.

  She wasted no time and left.

  She walked and walked, not stopping until she passed the bus driver, almost missing the dirty eye he threw at her.

  Raven paid it no mind, not even rolling her eyes like usual.

  She wordlessly settled onto a window seat near another door.

  Raven sat still, staring outside till the bus moved past a few stops.

  Various shapes of green flashing before her.

  Last, and at least herself, panting hard and fast, she could barely catch a breath.

  Her fingers and legs shaking.

  Raven had run.

  She had run unnoticed the whole way till the bus.

  Raven detected it now, viewing herself in the window reflection.

  But she couldn’t linger in the moment; her phone rang.

  “Who is texting me?” mumbled Raven lowly.

  She quietly pulled it out, the glowing phone out, a quick skim told her everything she needed—it was just spam.

  But under the pop-up message loomed another message.

  Raven stared it right down, her expression missing any bite, merely emptiness.

  However, that didn’t matter anymore as she saw the sign of her school upcoming.

  Without any glimpse back, she left the bus the minute it stopped.

  The bus closed its door shut the second she stepped out, as if it was desperate to have nothing to do with the people here.

  ‘Me too, buddy, me too.’

  Peering into the sky, it was grey, cloudy, unforgiving.

  ‘Comforting as ever,’ mused Raven as she looked away, setting course in the direction of her first class.

  It wasn’t like the teacher would wait for her or anyone else.

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  Just a heads-up: this Monday’s update will be a little surprise, but after next week, we’ll be back to the usual updates.

  —(N.N)

  Are long chapter like 4-5k words also okay ?