MARRIAGE IS SCARY NOWADAYS 😲😲😩😩 The most RECENT NEWS of MUSKAN, SAHIL and SOURAV case of Maharashtra India.

As true crime explodes across media platforms, ethical concerns rise alongside viewership. This investigative piece examines the psychological pull, blurred boundaries, and potential harms hidden behind our collective fascination with real-life horror.

Detective Adrian Cole arrives, quickly assessing the situation. The guests are questioned. Everyone has an alibi—except for the silent guest, who remains eerily calm. The detective learns no one seems to know who the silent guest actually is.

As the night progresses, Eleanor excuses herself to her study. Moments later, a bloodcurdling scream rings out.

Chapter 1: The Grand Affair Socialite Eleanor Hawthorne hosts an extravagant dinner party at her mansion, inviting a mix of old friends, business associates, and family. Among the guests is a mysterious figure who never speaks, only nods or gestures. The night is full of tension—arguments, whispered secrets, and hidden glances.

What are you shielding, exactly? Is it justice, or the weight of a lie? Behind that badge, behind that wall, Do you hear the heartbeats you’ve silenced— Or do you even try?

Murder or something far m(o)te sin is stirruse? Miss Justice Shoved into darkness, called property, their voices muffled, their dreams buried deep. The world closes its eyes, for pocket change, while humanity’s soul is sold and estranged. But I stand still— unbroken yet broken still. A paradox of pain and power, a heart that refuses to cower. Miss Justice, they named her, but never gave her a face. She is many, she is all, lost in a cruel embrace. Chains of silence rattle loud, beneath the weight of greed’s shroud. Yet in the shadows, embers glow— a spark of change begins to grow. I’m fine being the last to stand, if it means the animals don’t lose their land. But it’s not just us; species fade, their future lost in the haze. The rhino, the elephant, the tiger too, their numbers dwindling, what shall we do? Their extinction a price we can’t pay, yet still we ravage, day by day. It’s time the world awakens, to see what’s been forsaken.

Digital vigilantism blurs justice and harassment, fueling mob behavior and ethical concerns. These articles may interest you!

Handwriting is more than ink on a page—it’s a neurological imprint of the writer’s mind. In forensic psychology, every stroke, slant, and spacing pattern tells a story, especially in the case of serial offenders.

“What?” I said. She sighed and said, ”One of the prisoners said he’s breaking out tonight, and I think he’s bluffing. They’re always bluffing.” I gasped at the very thought of a prisoner breaking out. What would they do? How would they get off the island? ”Oh, yeah,” I said nervously, “totally bluffing. Right.”

Michelle's interview. This provides a look into David's perspective. As well as more of Michelle's behaviours. Soon, the perspective will shift from third person to Michelle's point of view.

Michelle is home now, and she has a busy afternoon. This chapter includes mention of physical harm and panic attacks.

Thomas, David, and Michelle live with their father in Los Angeles. Michelle. The three are in an abusive household. This introduction acts like a prologue to a realistic fiction story including Drama, Comedy, Tragedy and more.

Emma is a 17 year old girl, who lives alone with her mother. They’ve just moved to a new small town, called Hetherly. It’s quiet, and small, but when students at her new school start getting killed, she’s the primary witness.

The bunny was the happiest creature in the meadow, a soft ball of fur with wide, trusting eyes and a heart too big for his tiny body. He bounced from flower to flower, offering tomatoes as red as the morning sun, fresh hemp that smelled of earth and sky, and smooth gray stones that, when held, made the world feel a little softer, a little kinder. And oh, how he loved! He loved the crickets that sang to the moon, the deer with their slow, thoughtful eyes, the field mice who nibbled at the edges of his offerings. He gave without thought, without hesitation. His world was made of warmth, of sharing, of the gentle hum of life itself. But then came the wolf.

Not the result of accident, or natural illness. She was a victim, " the Taken" as a dear lady friend calls them. These girls, some very young, are removed from themselves, and some go missing for two months before they are returned all fucked up, addicted to heroin, dissociative behaviour it takes a psychic to get through to them. They are discredited as wingnut, junkie, dope whores. I know what they are... The Third eye on each one is wide open. All of them have one more common thread. Me. I knew them all when they were Normalz. Some of them love me, and some want to kill me, others do both. Everyone of them trusts me. For the most part; due the fact without myself and the Christopher's they would not have made it this far. I'm down here with them, with you, in the gutters, and dumpsters, providing for the struggle to go on. It will with or without you. I will make sure of it.

Willowood was a quiet, sunny, fruitful plain of meadows ridden up on a rugged mountain with a silky creek. Upon the creek a wider gape was dug, creating an opening to an extremely small river. A waterfall ran down the river, and here is where you would find a castle by the name of Myristica. Nearing the time of year where it was cold, small portions of the river were slowly freezing over. But more than just the outside was cold. The mood in Myristica may have just beat the temperature outside. The spiteful queen, who went by the name of Bianca, was up to rivaling trouble.

"This is a work of fiction" It had been a few months since Anne had left us, before the finality of it set in. I had been understanding, but that didn't mean it hurt any less. She was tired of L.A., and living in our truck. There was no making it better for her, no matter how I tried. Claiming she was homesick, when the truth was so much simpler. Maybe not to say, just to understand. Anne was starving for a normal life. Without a doubt, not something I could ever have given her. In our time together she gained something much more useful. Several years prior I had taken her to street school.

This is a very short story of the case of Elizabeth Short a woman who was murdered and the case is still well unsolved but the case is open

Social media was meant to connect us, but it has turned into a courtroom where the loudest voices determine guilt or innocence—often without evidence.