Our TG Captionpage 3
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People don’t just listen to you—they orbit you, their worlds tilting to accommodate your gravity. Words are your brushstrokes; the world, your canvas. And this afternoon, your easel is a bustling mall food court.
Your tray carries a burger and fries, the smell rich with nostalgia and seasoning. You pick a corner booth, one with strategic placement: an unobstructed view of the ebb and flow of humanity, chattering voices blending into the background hum. This is where things unfold. Where *you* unfold them.
You take a bite, chew thoughtfully, then glance across the polished expanse of linoleum and glass. At a nearby table, a group of women in their twenties laugh over iced coffees and glossy shopping bags. Their conversation flits between brands and brunch plans, light as whipped cream.
But your eyes settle on *her*.
The redhead.
She’s striking, yes—fiery curls, emerald eyes that catch light like gemstone facets—but it’s the way she keeps glancing toward you that seals it. Curiosity. The tilt of her head, the flicker of a smile she tries not to let settle on her face. You’ve seen it before. It's an opening.
And you're ready.
You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Your will flows silently, rewriting the narrative like a hand sweeping across sand.
Across the food court, the table shifts.
The redhead is no longer there.
Her seat is empty, her friends carry on as if she never existed. They sip their drinks, pass around blush compacts and blouses, entirely unaware that a piece of their world just dissolved like sugar in coffee.
She’s yours now.
You don’t have to look up to know where she is.
"Sir," a voice says.
You glance up—there she stands.
Melanie.
She’s *exquisite*, in a sharply tailored blouse that plunges just enough, a pencil skirt that accentuates every curve with precision, and heels that click like punctuation on marble. Her long red hair is swept into a sleek side-part, cascading over one shoulder like a silken banner. Her lips are a meticulous shade of red that matches nothing but power.
Her expression is crisp, professional, and utterly devoted.
She’s always been that way. She’s always *been* Melanie—your personal assistant, your confidante, your gatekeeper to the world of women and influence. There is no past in which she was anything else. No shared history with the group of strangers still gossiping at their table, none of whom even glance her way as she stands beside your booth.
“I've confirmed the two prospects near the fountain,” she says, tapping her phone. “One brunette, one blonde. Both made eye contact. Would you like an introduction?"
You take a sip of your drink. The world tastes sharper now. More correct.
“Not yet,” you say, wiping your mouth with a napkin, eyes scanning the court again. “Let’s enjoy the view a little longer.”
Melanie nods, perfectly still.
And the mall bustles on, utterly unaware that its reality has bent to accommodate you, Morgan—the man who speaks reality into existence.
And who’s only just begun.
Your tray carries a burger and fries, the smell rich with nostalgia and seasoning. You pick a corner booth, one with strategic placement: an unobstructed view of the ebb and flow of humanity, chattering voices blending into the background hum. This is where things unfold. Where *you* unfold them.
You take a bite, chew thoughtfully, then glance across the polished expanse of linoleum and glass. At a nearby table, a group of women in their twenties laugh over iced coffees and glossy shopping bags. Their conversation flits between brands and brunch plans, light as whipped cream.
But your eyes settle on *her*.
The redhead.
She’s striking, yes—fiery curls, emerald eyes that catch light like gemstone facets—but it’s the way she keeps glancing toward you that seals it. Curiosity. The tilt of her head, the flicker of a smile she tries not to let settle on her face. You’ve seen it before. It's an opening.
And you're ready.
You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Your will flows silently, rewriting the narrative like a hand sweeping across sand.
Across the food court, the table shifts.
The redhead is no longer there.
Her seat is empty, her friends carry on as if she never existed. They sip their drinks, pass around blush compacts and blouses, entirely unaware that a piece of their world just dissolved like sugar in coffee.
She’s yours now.
You don’t have to look up to know where she is.
"Sir," a voice says.
You glance up—there she stands.
Melanie.
She’s *exquisite*, in a sharply tailored blouse that plunges just enough, a pencil skirt that accentuates every curve with precision, and heels that click like punctuation on marble. Her long red hair is swept into a sleek side-part, cascading over one shoulder like a silken banner. Her lips are a meticulous shade of red that matches nothing but power.
Her expression is crisp, professional, and utterly devoted.
She’s always been that way. She’s always *been* Melanie—your personal assistant, your confidante, your gatekeeper to the world of women and influence. There is no past in which she was anything else. No shared history with the group of strangers still gossiping at their table, none of whom even glance her way as she stands beside your booth.
“I've confirmed the two prospects near the fountain,” she says, tapping her phone. “One brunette, one blonde. Both made eye contact. Would you like an introduction?"
You take a sip of your drink. The world tastes sharper now. More correct.
“Not yet,” you say, wiping your mouth with a napkin, eyes scanning the court again. “Let’s enjoy the view a little longer.”
Melanie nods, perfectly still.
And the mall bustles on, utterly unaware that its reality has bent to accommodate you, Morgan—the man who speaks reality into existence.
And who’s only just begun.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!