Synopsis: Stolen Self is a psychological sci-fi thriller exploring the hidden depths of obsession and the dangerous allure of rewriting one’s own identity. Richard Vargas’s life is fwless on the surface—yet beneath the precision and discipline lies a disturbing hunger for escape, for freedom in another form entirely. In the opening chapter, Richard's carefully crafted persona begins to unravel as secret, forbidden desires push him toward a chilling realization:

  He may soon lose control of who—or what—he truly is.

  The silverware clinked softly against porcein. The dining room was bathed in warm, golden light, a carefully curated ambiance. The polished mahogany table, the elegant gssware, the neatly folded napkins—everything was a reflection of order.

  Richard Vargas sat at the head of the table, straight-backed, composed. He watched his family with the same level of scrutiny he reserved for his work—analyzing, assessing.

  Jakub spoke with the enthusiasm of youth, discussing his test neuroscience project. “We’ve been testing different stimulus-response variations, tracking neural psticity under extreme conditions. The results indicate that—”

  “You’re pushing cognitive thresholds,” Richard interjected smoothly. He knew where this was going. “How are you accounting for synaptic degradation?”

  Jakub didn’t hesitate. “We’ve mapped out compensatory pathways. The degradation is minimal.”

  Good. Jakub had learned well. He was methodical, ambitious—his father’s son. Richard gave him a small, approving nod. Jakub absorbed it like fuel.

  Across the table, Cra toyed with her fork. She wasn’t like Jakub. She didn’t strive for validation. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm but deliberate. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Richard looked at her. “What?”

  “The idea that some things shouldn’t be optimized. That maybe… some things should just be left alone.”

  A quiet, pointed challenge.

  Richard studied his daughter carefully. She had a sharp mind, a writer’s mind—always observing, always questioning. There was something almost unsettling about the way she looked at him sometimes, as if she could see through him.

  Jakub scoffed. “That’s na?ve.”

  Cra smirked, unconvinced. “Or maybe it’s the only thing that makes life worth living.”

  A pause.

  Julia, ever the diplomat, pced a hand over Cra’s, gently redirecting the conversation. “Not everything has to be a debate,” she said with a soft chuckle, though her eyes flickered toward Richard, watching his reaction.

  Richard exhaled, sipping his wine. He let the moment pass. No need to push. Not yet.

  Instead, he observed.

  Julia—his perfect wife, always knowing when to defuse tension. The face of grace and control, the woman he had built a life with. Still beautiful, still poised. But distant, always distant.

  Jakub—so certain of his pce in the world. Intelligent, disciplined, efficient. But also predictable. He was easy to read, easy to guide.

  And Cra—the outlier. The one who didn’t fit neatly into the mold.

  His family. His creation.

  And yet, sitting among them, he felt more like an outsider than a man at the center of his own world.

  As dinner ends, Richard retreats mentally, leaving the warmth of family behind. Tomorrow awaits—a stage prepared for his fwless public persona.

  Location: Vargas Neurotechnologies – Press Conference / Industry Event

  The event hall was bathed in a calcuted glow—cool, professional, commanding. Spotlights illuminated the Vargas Neurotechnologies logo behind the sleek bck podium, where Richard Vargas stood, perfectly poised.

  The room was filled with powerful people—scientists, investors, politicians, journalists—all eager to witness the future. His future.

  Richard adjusted his cufflinks, an unconscious habit, before pcing his hands on the podium. He let the silence settle, controlling the anticipation in the room before he spoke.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice smooth, precise, honed by years of experience. “For centuries, humanity has been limited by its own biology. Our bodies fail us. Our minds decay. But what if they didn’t have to?”

  A pause. Controlled. Measured.

  He continued. “At Vargas Neurotechnologies, we don’t just treat symptoms. We don’t just slow decline. We are rewriting the narrative of the human experience. We are pioneering interfaces that will allow minds to communicate beyond the barriers of disease. To restore lost function. To reconnect the disconnected.”

  He gnced at the massive screen behind him as it shifted to dispy real-time visuals—graphs, brain scans, patient testimonials. Polished. Perfect. Unquestionable progress.

  “This is no longer theoretical. It’s happening now,” Richard said, allowing a small, confident smile to form. “We are not just observers of the future. We are its architects.”

  Appuse.

  It started with the executives, the investors, those who already had stakes in his vision. But soon the journalists followed, the scientists nodding, the energy in the room shifting.

  Richard scanned the crowd, making brief eye contact with key figures. This was power. Not raw dominance, not reckless ambition—but the quiet, calcuted grip on the world’s future.

  A reporter from the front row raised a hand.

  “Dr. Vargas, your company has been at the forefront of neural research, but there have been ethical concerns regarding cognitive influence. How do you respond to cims that this technology could be misused?”

  Richard smiled. He had prepared for this. He always did.

  “Our focus has always been medical application,” he said smoothly. “We develop tools to enhance lives, not control them. We understand the importance of ethics, and that’s why every breakthrough we achieve is subjected to the strictest oversight. We believe in progress, but not without responsibility.”

  A perfect answer.

  The journalist nodded, but Richard could see the flicker of doubt. It didn’t matter. By tomorrow, the headline would focus on innovation, not hesitation.

  Another hand went up. A different reporter—this one younger, bolder.

  “Your work is undeniably groundbreaking, Dr. Vargas. But some have specuted about the personal cost of this level of ambition. What does a man like you sacrifice to build a future like this?”

  The question hung in the air.

  For a fraction of a second, Richard’s mind splintered.

  He pictured his wife’s carefully curated charity events, her effortless social grace. His son’s blind admiration. His daughter’s sharp, knowing gnces.

  He thought about the sleepless nights, the quiet moments where his reflection felt like a stranger.

  And then, just as quickly, the thought was gone. Buried. Repced with the answer the world needed to hear.

  “The only sacrifice worth making,” he said, his voice unwavering, “is stagnation. If we allow fear to dictate the limits of science, we deny humanity its potential. That is a price I am not willing to pay.”

  More appuse.

  More admiration.

  More power.

  Richard stepped down from the podium, shaking hands with key figures, smiling for cameras. He had pyed his role fwlessly.

  But as he left the stage, moving past the adoring crowd, past the watchful eyes of his board members, past the executives who measured him in numbers and potential—he felt nothing.

  Just the hum of a performance well executed.

  Just the weight of expectation pressing against his ribs.

  Near the back of the room, Marcus Bennett stood watching silently, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. Marcus—Richard’s trusted partner and co-founder of Vargas Neurotechnologies—was more cautious, more openly concerned with ethics and boundaries. He was useful precisely because he saw dangers Richard was inclined to ignore.

  Their eyes briefly met, an unspoken signal exchanged. Marcus nodded, understanding immediately. They would discuss it privately. Away from prying eyes, from the bright lights, from the public performance.

  Richard left the appuse behind, stepping from the spotlight toward solitude—toward his office, where power wasn’t performed; it was exercised.

  Location: Vargas Neurotechnologies (Richard’s Office)

  The door closed behind Marcus with a soft hiss, sealing the office in a vacuum of silence. The executive floor of Vargas Neurotechnologies was soundproofed—no outside noise, no distractions. A controlled environment, just as Richard preferred.

  Marcus stood near the desk, arms crossed, a flicker of unease in his expression. That was already a mistake. Richard noticed everything—body nguage, hesitation, microexpressions. And hesitation was weakness.

  Richard didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he took his time finishing the st few lines of an email before pressing send. Letting the silence stretch. A calcuted pause. When he finally spoke, his voice was composed, calm, but carried the weight of expectation.

  “You have concerns.”

  Marcus exhaled through his nose. “You know I do.” He pced a tablet on the desk, flipping it toward Richard. “The new interface tests. Sensory response is improving, but some subjects are struggling with the integration. They describe temporary dissociation—like the data input doesn’t feel entirely theirs.”

  Richard steepled his fingers. Interesting.

  “And?”

  Marcus hesitated. “It’s… a grey area, Richard. The longer we push external inputs, the more we’re blurring the line between organic cognition and artificial stimution. I’m saying we need to be careful.”

  Richard leaned back in his chair, studying Marcus like a specimen under a microscope.

  “We’re helping people,” he said smoothly. “ALS patients, stroke survivors—people who have lost fundamental human experiences. You’d deny them that?”

  Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  Richard tilted his head slightly, like a predator sizing up prey. “Then what are you saying?”

  Marcus hesitated again. Another mistake.

  “That we’re… testing limits we don’t fully understand yet.”

  Richard allowed a small, knowing smile.

  There it was.

  The fear. The unspoken hesitation.

  Richard had worked with Marcus long enough to know his weaknesses—his need for ethical justification, his internal struggle between morality and ambition. Marcus was valuable, but pliable. He just needed… guidance.

  Richard stood, circling the desk slowly, deliberately. He took the tablet from Marcus, skimming the data. The descriptions fascinated him—subjects reporting a brief sense of detachment, moments of unfamiliarity, an artificial intrusion into the self.

  But only for a moment. Then, recalibration. Adaptation.

  The mind adjusted. It always did.

  He turned the screen off and pced the tablet down, looking directly at Marcus now.

  “You believe in what we’re doing, don’t you?”

  Marcus exhaled. “Of course. But—”

  Richard cut him off, stepping closer, his presence subtly imposing.

  “You were with me when we started this company. You know what’s at stake.” His voice remained measured, but there was weight behind every word. “We’re not just treating symptoms anymore. We’re restoring experiences, rewriting the rules of what’s possible.”

  Marcus swallowed. “I know that.”

  Richard lowered his voice slightly, almost conspiratorial. “Then why does it sound like you’re afraid of success?”

  Marcus stiffened. The shift was subtle but noticeable. Richard knew that phrase would strike a nerve.

  “I’m not afraid of success,” Marcus said, straightening his posture. “I’m saying we need boundaries.”

  Richard let the silence stretch again. Let the discomfort do the work.

  Then, finally, he nodded. A gesture of understanding. Agreement. A carefully crafted illusion.

  “You’re right.” He turned back toward his desk, smoothing the sleeve of his tailored shirt. “We proceed cautiously. Collect more data. Find the threshold.”

  Marcus visibly rexed. He thought he had won something. That his voice had been heard.

  Richard had given him nothing.

  “Good,” Marcus muttered, nodding as if to reassure himself. “I’ll adjust the parameters.”

  Richard smiled slightly, controlled, knowing.

  “Perfect.”

  Marcus turned to leave, but before he reached the door, Richard spoke again, his tone light, almost conversational.

  “Oh, and Marcus?”

  Marcus paused, hand on the door.

  Richard didn’t look up from his desk. “Never hesitate in front of me again.”

  Silence.

  Then, finally, Marcus nodded. “Understood.”

  The door closed behind him, leaving Richard alone.

  His expression didn’t change, but inside, he was intrigued.

  The technology was evolving faster than expected. The mind was adapting. Learning to accept external influence.

  How far could it be pushed?

  The question settled into him, dark and fascinating.

  A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Richard gnced up, annoyed, as his assistant quietly stepped inside, holding a dark garment bag carefully over her arm.

  “Sir, your driver will be ready at six. Your evening suit for Mrs. Vargas’s event is ready. She asked me to remind you that guests begin arriving at seven.”

  Richard nodded once, sharply, dismissing her without a word. She pced the garment bag neatly on the chair near the door and left as quietly as she'd entered.

  He gnced at the clock. The obligations never ceased. The transition between worlds—between his clinical dominance here at Vargas Neurotechnologies and the suffocating elegance of Julia’s social circle—was always jarring, always unnatural. Yet, as with everything, Richard pyed his part fwlessly.

  He stood, straightening his cuffs, adjusting his tie, slipping effortlessly back into character. Tonight, like every other night, he would be Richard Vargas—the brilliant scientist, the proud husband, the respected figurehead.

  He had a company to run. A legacy to maintain. A world to convince.

  But most importantly—

  He had his own limits to test.

  Location: Vargas Estate – Julia’s Charity Event

  The grand hall of the Vargas estate was bathed in warm, golden light, a carefully curated atmosphere of elegance and exclusivity. The event was one of Julia’s many phinthropic gatherings—this time, for an initiative supporting underprivileged youth in education. The room was filled with the city’s elite—politicians, investors, high-society figures—sipping wine, exchanging pleasantries, their ughter light and effortless.

  Richard stood near the bar, whiskey in hand, posture straight, composed. Perfect.

  He scanned the room with quiet detachment. He recognized the faces, knew their titles, their net worths, their alliances. He had shaken their hands at board meetings, seen them at industry conferences, exchanged calcuted pleasantries at simir events.

  Julia moved through the crowd like an artist at work, offering warm smiles, gentle touches on the arm, perfectly timed ughter. She was graceful, charming, admired.

  “Dr. Vargas.”

  He turned at the sound of his name. A senator’s wife, a woman he had met a dozen times but never truly remembered, smiled up at him.

  “You must be very proud of Julia,” she said, gesturing toward his wife, who was engaged in lively conversation with a group of donors.

  Richard gave a practiced smile. “She’s exceptional.”

  The woman ughed lightly. “A man of few words. But I suppose that’s what makes you so intriguing.”

  He tipped his gss slightly in acknowledgment, but his mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t proud. He wasn’t moved. Julia’s world was a performance, just as his was.

  He had everything—a beautiful, sophisticated wife, a perfect home, a name that commanded respect. And yet, none of it felt real.

  Across the room, Cra stood near the balcony doors, watching him.

  She was in an elegant bck dress—Julia’s choice—but she had paired it with boots instead of heels, an act of quiet rebellion. Her hair was loosely tied back, strands falling around her face as she observed the crowd with that same sharpness Richard recognized in himself.

  He met her gaze.

  “Not your kind of crowd?” he asked when she approached, her fingers wrapped around a gss of soda.

  She smirked. “Not yours either.”

  Richard chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “You think so?”

  “I know so.” She tilted her head slightly, watching him with an expression that was too knowing for her age. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

  He studied her for a moment, then gnced back at the crowd. The conversations, the ughter, the clinking of gsses—it was all noise.

  Instead of answering, he took another sip of whiskey.

  Cra didn’t push. She simply nodded, her smirk fading into something softer. “Me too,” she said before walking away.

  He watched her go.

  She understood him in ways Julia never would.

  “Richard,” Julia’s voice called from behind him, gentle but firm.

  He turned to see her approaching, radiant as always. She slid her arm around his, seamlessly drawing him into her orbit.

  “Everything alright?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question. It was a reminder—a signal to py his role.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly.

  She smiled, tilting her head. “I need you to talk to the new donors. A few of them have been waiting to meet you.”

  Of course they had. Richard Vargas. The brilliant neuroscientist. The perfect husband.

  He nodded. “Lead the way.”

  Julia kissed his cheek—for show, always for show—before guiding him toward a cluster of people eager for his attention.

  And just like that, the illusion remained intact.

  He shook hands. He answered questions. He pyed the part.

  But as the night stretched on, as Julia’s ughter filled the air, as the guests admired their perfect lives, Richard’s thoughts were already elsewhere.

  Somewhere far from here.

  Somewhere he didn’t have to be Richard Vargas at all.

  As guests depart and Julia’s carefully crafted event fades into silence, Richard feels tension coiling within him—his mask harder to hold in pce. Seeking release, he turns inward.

  Location: Richard’s Private Gym

  The gym was a stark contrast to the warm, opulent glow of the charity event. Here, there were no distractions, no forced smiles, no weight of expectation—just polished concrete floors, high-tech exercise machines, and walls lined with mirrors that reflected nothing but cold efficiency.

  Richard stood in the center of the room, rolling up the sleeves of his compression shirt, feeling the tightness of his muscles beneath the fabric. The event had drained him in a way he couldn’t expin, and this—this was his way of resetting.

  He wasn’t out of shape. Far from it. His body was still strong, still lean, but there were small betrayals creeping in. A stiffness in his joints that lingered longer than it used to. The slightest change in how his skin rested over muscle. The undeniable truth that time was winning, no matter how much he fought it.

  He would not let it.

  The first set was fast and aggressive—push-ups, pull-ups, a relentless cycle of controlled movements designed to push his limits. He needed to feel power. To remind himself that he was still master of his own flesh.

  The weights were next. He gritted his teeth as he pushed against the barbell, his muscles straining, burning. He welcomed the pain. The struggle. It was better than the alternative—feeling nothing.

  Minutes passed. Then an hour. His breath was sharp, sweat soaking through his shirt, his pulse a steady drum in his ears. He stood alone in his private gym, chest rising and falling in measured breaths. Sweat glistened on his forehead, running slowly down the contours of his jaw. His muscles burned pleasantly from the rigorous workout—yet satisfaction eluded him. As he studied his reflection in the wall-length mirror, his expression tightened.

  He didn't see himself as others did—a disciplined, powerful man at the height of his career. Instead, he saw only effort—the relentless maintenance required to sustain the illusion. His physique was impeccable, but it came at a cost: daily battles, exhausting routines, constant vigince against the subtle encroachments of time.

  His fingers clenched into fists, shoulders tightening under unseen weight. Richard had spent his entire life perfecting every aspect of himself—his mind, his body, his reputation—and yet he felt no genuine satisfaction. Everything was carefully calcuted, deliberately executed. Nothing spontaneous. Nothing truly alive.

  He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply, calmly.

  It wasn't enough. The feeling persisted, gnawing at him from within.

  With an exhale of resignation, he stepped away from the mirror. He stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and entered the sleek, gss-walled shower. Water cascaded down his back, alternating scalding heat with icy sharpness, but even this ritual purification couldn't wash away the lingering unease.

  Steam fogged the gss around him, blurring his reflection. For a fleeting instant, Richard imagined fading entirely—becoming vapor, disappearing into the mist, free from expectation, from calcution, from himself.

  Eventually, the water stopped. He dried off mechanically, pulled on clean clothes, and left the gym behind. Physically spent yet mentally unsettled, Richard knew sleep wouldn't come easily tonight. He needed distraction—something to occupy his restless mind, to quiet the persistent whispers within.

  The grand halls of the Vargas estate were now silent, illuminated only by dim, golden sconces lining the walls. Everyone was asleep—Julia in their carefully maintained bedroom, Jakub away at university, Cra in the quiet solitude of her own room. Yet Richard remained awake, pacing restlessly through empty corridors.

  Sleep felt impossible, his mind buzzing with energy left over from the punishing workout. His body was exhausted, yet his thoughts raced ceaselessly, refusing to settle. He paused by the rge oak doors of his private home office, hesitating only briefly before entering. Perhaps work could distract him—numbers, data, something logical to anchor himself.

  Settling into his leather chair, Richard opened his ptop, gncing at the clock on his desk—0:53 AM. He rubbed his temples, trying to force crity through exhaustion, but found himself unfocused. Out of habit, he opened his browser and began scrolling aimlessly, hoping to quiet the chaos in his mind.

  The office was quiet, the silence heavy, comforting in its solitude. Richard sat alone, bathed in the cool blue glow from his ptop, the rest of the house silent, his family deep in sleep. The exhaustion of the day weighed on him, yet his mind buzzed restlessly, searching for something to anchor him.

  At first, he scrolled mindlessly. A mix of news, financial updates, fitness tips—predictable content tailored to a man of his status. But then—the algorithm shifted.

  A reel of a young woman dancing. Not sexual, just pyful, weightless. Another—ughing into the camera, flipping her hair, glowing in the warm light of some faraway beach.

  He paused.

  Something about them unsettled him.

  Their ease. The way they existed without effort, without burden. He had spent decades perfecting himself—his image, his body, his mind, his empire. And yet these women, these girls, had something he never could.

  Freedom.

  They were light, untethered by expectation, responsibility, time.

  His jaw tightened. His thumb hovered over the screen, then moved deliberately.

  TikTok.

  He typed nothing into the search bar. He didn’t need to. The algorithm had already learned his interests—or perhaps, the things he refused to name.

  The feed delivered him more. Girls lounging in oversized sweatshirts, drinking coffee, their lips slightly parted in absentminded thought. A close-up of a woman’s hands dragging over her colrbones, skin fwless, soft. Another stretching in bed, sheets tangled around her bare legs, eyes fluttering as she woke.

  It wasn’t erotic. Not overtly. But it was something else.

  He leaned forward, his breath steady but shallow.

  These weren’t women performing for men. These were women simply being. Enjoying themselves. Their bodies. Their own existence.

  Something twisted in his chest.

  He clicked on a new video. A woman, no older than twenty-two, sitting in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. A soft, unconscious smile pying on her lips. Completely absorbed in herself.

  He wanted that.

  He didn’t want her. He wanted to be her.

  His fingers moved. The ptop screen shifted. A new tab.

  A different kind of content.

  Not couples. Not men. Only women.

  Alone.

  The videos filled the screen—women in dimly lit rooms, slow, teasing, absorbed in their own pleasure.

  Richard’s breath hitched.

  Not because of what they were doing—but because of how they did it. The way they touched themselves with absolute indulgence. The way they moved as if the world outside didn’t exist.

  He imagined it.

  The sensation of being them.

  Not watching, not taking, not possessing—but inhabiting.

  His body reacted, but his mind spiraled. The images blurred into something else—fantasy, hunger, longing.

  His hand drifted downward.

  He was the girl on the bed, zy and satisfied, stretching with feline grace.

  He was the woman in the mirror, admiring her own body, bathed in golden light.

  He was the one whispering pleasure into the darkness, untethered from time, from responsibility, from himself.

  His breath quickened, his pulse pounding. His muscles tensed, pleasure cresting—

  And then, just as suddenly—emptiness.

  The sensation vanished the moment it arrived, leaving behind nothing but a hollow ache.

  He exhaled sharply, shoulders rising and falling as he leaned back in his chair. His skin felt fevered, his limbs heavy. His ptop screen was still open, frozen on an image that had meant everything just moments ago and now meant nothing.

  He closed the tab. Shut the ptop. Sat in silence.

  The shame crept in.

  Not from the act itself. He had long abandoned conventional morality. But from what it meant.

  This was not normal.

  He wiped his hands over his face, rubbing at his temples. He was Richard Vargas—CEO, scientist, a man of logic and discipline. A man in control.

  And yet here he was.

  Coveting the impossible.

  He forced himself to stand, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck. He needed to go to bed. Needed to shake this feeling, bury it beneath routine, beneath normalcy.

  Tomorrow, everything would be the same.

  Tomorrow, he would be Richard Vargas again.

  But tonight—

  Tonight, something inside him had shifted.

  And it wasn’t going away.