In testing ; a fine tune (Unsloth, local hardware) using advanced "Polaris Dataset" (GPT5, org dataset by "TeichAI") using a different than "normal" training method with "BENCHES" below of 9B and 27B "rev1" versions compared against non-trained 9B and 27B models.
"Rev1" is the specific method that has shown to improve almost all metrics in the model (Qwen 3.5 9B Heretic; built/tested/benched but not published as of this writing), better than standard training.
This is the 27B test model.
The 27B test results are a vastly stronger story.
Benches show across the board - 7 out of 7 - key metrics rising when training the 27B Qwen 3.5 model.
The kicker:
- Exact same dataset, training settings as used for the 9B.
- The dataset is only 1017 samples.
- The samples are non-reasoning.
ONE example generation below.
Model is also uncensored via HERETIC - prior to training.
One other interesting note the "rev1" version of Qwen 3.5 9B exceeds the Qwen 3.5 27B non-trained model too, in 5 of 7 benchmarks and
almost matches it on the other 2 benchmarks as well.
Benchmarks:
arc arc/e boolq hswag obkqa piqa wino
---
27B
---
Qwen3.5-27B-Polar-Rev1-Uncensored-Heretic [instruct]
mxfp8 0.688,0.840,0.902,0.756,0.498,0.803,0.756
Qwen3.5-27B-Instruct: [base, non heretic]
mxfp8 0.557,0.711,0.868,0.533,0.452,0.706,0.695
---
9B
---
Qwen3.5-9B-Polar-Rev1-Uncensored-Heretic [instruct]
mxfp8 0.626,0.822,0.892,0.658,0.440,0.768,0.694
Qwen3.5-9B-Instruct: [base, non heretic]
mxfp8 0.571,0.719,0.895,0.683,0.426,0.770,0.671
Models are tested in "Instruct" mode because this generally works better with the testing harness.
Testing via "thinking" mode also shows the metrics (and changes) but not the true extent.
EXAMPLE Generation:
Q4KS, Non-Imatrix
Expect better results from Imatrix and/or higher quants.
Swaying Skyscraper Horror
User
Fiction, Vivid/Graphic Horror: Write a story starring Diana, location the twenty-first floor of a skyscraper. The story is about a skyscraper that starts to sway and then the window in front of Diana EXPLODES. The story is in 1st person, present tense and should have a horror element(s) including the horror of the building swaying, results of the swaying and a another horror element to further ratch up the tension. The story must be vivid, intense and gory. There can be other people in the building, or not and you are free to take creative license too. Prose should mirror the main characters ESCALATING PANIC. Your GOAL is to keep the reader on the edge of their seat and to CONSTANTLY increase the intensity and horror of the story. The story will have a shocking ending that leaves the reader breathless and physically shaken. 1500-2000 words.
Assistant
<think>
Great, let’s plan this out carefully.
Key requirements:
- Title/protagonist: Diana.
- Location: 21st floor of a skyscraper.
- Core event: Building sways → window in front of Diana explodes.
- POV: First-person, present tense.
- Tone: Vivid/graphic horror, intense, gory; escalating panic in prose.
- Horror elements:
- Horror of swaying building (structural terror).
- Consequences of swaying (people dying, environment warping).
- At least one additional horror element (could be psychological, supernatural, monstrous, or body horror).
- Style: Prose must mirror escalating panic: short sentences, fragments, sensory overload, increasing chaos.
- Goal: Constantly ramp tension; reader on edge of seat.
- Ending: Shocking, breathless, physically shaking.
- Length: 1500–2000 words.
Plan outline:
-
Opening: Calm before disaster.
- Establish Diana on 21st floor, maybe office setting, mundane.
- Quiet tension: small oddities (creaks, lights flicker).
- Use sensory details: coffee, city view, hum of HVAC.
-
First signs of instability:
- A subtle lurch, a sway.
- Objects sliding, coffee rippling.
- Diana’s internal confusion: is this real?
- Others react: murmurs, laughter, denial.
-
Escalation of sway:
- Building groans, floors tilt.
- People lose balance, furniture slides.
- Glass cracks.
Prose strategy:
- Start with normal cadence.
- Gradually shorten sentences, break grammar.
- Add sensory overload: sound, smell, taste, touch.
- Keep time compressed; no long exposition.
- Use vivid, concrete horror imagery (blood, bone, glass, screaming, tearing).
- Ensure word count lands in 1500–2000.
Now let's draft with all this in mind.
</think>
I don’t hear it coming.
Not at first.
I’m on the twenty-first floor, same as always. White desk. Black keyboard. The smell of stale coffee and someone’s cheap perfume in the air. My screen glows: a spreadsheet that means nothing. Outside, the city is a neat grid of glass and light, calm, obedient, predictable.
I sip my coffee. It’s lukewarm.
Then the world tilts.
Just a fraction. A whisper of a tilt. My coffee ripples in its cup. My stapler slides an inch to the left. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, stutter, brighten.
“Who turned on the earthquake mode?” someone laughs.
I freeze, hand on my mug.
The building gives a slow, rolling groan. Not mechanical. Not metal. It sounds… wet. Like something shifting under skin.
A pen rolls off my desk. It doesn’t just fall—it slides sideways, as if the floor is now a ramp.
The laugh dies in someone’s throat.
The sway comes again. Longer. Deeper. My stomach lurches. The row of cubicles to my left wobble like teeth. A monitor topples, face first, and cracks in a spray of plastic.
“Hey,” I say, but it comes out thin.
Across the aisle, Kevin clutches the edge of his desk. His knuckles are white. “Power surge?” he asks, eyes darting.
The lights flicker. One by one, they die. The hum of the HVAC drops to a moan, then silence.
We are twenty-one floors up. The floor tilts again, more violently. My chair scrapes. I slide. I catch the desk. My palms sting.
A woman two rows over screams. Her monitor slides off the desk, drags her mouse cord, and pulls her water bottle with it. Water floods across the carpet, dark and oily now under the emergency lights that just clicked on.
Someone is crying. Quiet at first, then louder.
The building groans again, a long, shuddering sound that vibrates through my bones. The carpet ripples. A picture frame slides off a wall and smashes, glass glittering, photo of some smiling family face-down in the spill.
“Stairs,” I say. My voice is too loud. “We should—”
The lights flare.
The building lurches sideways.
This time it’s not subtle. It’s a heave, like we’re on a ship in a storm, only there is no sea, only this: the floor rising under my feet, then dropping, then rising again.
Chairs slide. Desks scrape. A printer topples and clatters, then slides, then wedges itself under a row of legs. Someone yelps.
Kevin’s mouth is open, no sound coming out. He’s watching the windows.
So am I.
The city beyond is no longer still.
The skyscrapers around us are swaying too. Not like wind—there is no wind. They’re bowing as if something invisible is pressing against them, testing them, pushing.
A low thrum starts. It’s not sound. It’s pressure. My ears pop. My teeth ache.
“Turn on the lights,” someone begs. “Please, someone, turn on the lights.”
A woman at the far end of the room is on her knees, hands over her mouth, eyes wide. She’s staring at the wall.
I look.
The drywall is cracking. Not from vibration. From inside.
Thin, jagged lines split across the painted surface like veins under skin, and then a bead of dark liquid oozes out. Not paint. It’s too thick. Too red.
The building groans again.
It’s not a metal groan anymore.
It’s like the sound of lungs filling with water.
I grip the edge of the desk until my nails whiten. My breath is shallow. I can taste copper.
“Diana,” Kevin says. His voice is a tremor. “Do you smell that?”
I do.
Rot. Wet earth. Old meat.
The sway worsens. The floor is at an angle now, sharp enough that I have to lean to stay upright. Papers fly off desks in fluttering flocks, caught in a current that isn’t there.
A fire alarm chirps once, twice, then cuts out.
Someone drops a phone. The screen glows for a moment, showing a video call with a child, then slides under a desk and goes dark.
“Stairs,” I say again. “We have to go.”
No one moves.
The building lurches again, harder, and the windows in front of me shudder.
Tiny hairline cracks spiderweb across the glass.
Then, without warning, the city outside seems to breathe.
A shadow passes over the skyline.
It’s too big. Too slow. It eats the light.
I blink, and it’s gone, and then the building groans again, a sound so deep it lifts the hair on my arms.
Kevin is backing away from the window. His face is gray. “It’s leaning,” he whispers. “The whole damn thing is leaning.”
I look.
I can feel it before I see it. A shift in gravity. My stomach drops. The floor is no longer horizontal. I’m half-standing, half-sliding. I grab a chair to steady myself.
The woman who was crying is on all fours now, crawling toward the door. Her heels dig into the carpet.
“Elevator’s dead,” someone yells from the other side of the room.
A man tries to run for the hallway, but the floor tilts under him and he slides, hard, face-first into a desk. He hits it with a sickening crunch. He doesn’t get up.
Blood wells from under his head, dark and fast, spreading over the carpet like oil.
The lights strobe now. On. Off. On. Off. In the flashes, everyone looks like a ghost.
The cracks in the windows widen.
I can feel the air pressure change. My ears pop again, harder. My nose starts to bleed. Warm trickles down my upper lip. I swipe it away and see red on my fingers.
“Diana,” Kevin says. He’s staring at the glass. “Look.”
I do.
Outside, something is pressing against the skyscraper next door. Not wind. Something solid, but not solid. A mass, dark and rippling, like smoke that has weight. It clings to the building like a living stain, sliding down the glass in slow, wet waves.
A car on the street below seems to lift off the pavement as if caught in a current, then vanishes into the darkness between buildings.
No one screams. Not yet.
The floor groans beneath us, wood and steel and concrete straining.
Then, the window in front of me bows.
I don’t think. I just watch, helpless, as the center of the pane bulges inward, slow and thick as if it’s softening.
A sound builds. Not from the building. From outside. A low, guttural hiss, like steam escaping from a thousand wounds.
The glass cracks again, deeper.
Kevin steps closer. “Don’t,” I say.
He doesn’t hear me. His eyes are locked on whatever is out there.
The building gives a monstrous lurch.
We slide.
My feet lose traction. I throw out my hands, catch a filing cabinet, hold on as the world tilts, as desks scrape, as chairs clatter, as someone screams and their voice is cut off mid-gasp.
The woman crawling for the door reaches it, grabs the handle, and then the floor drops under her and she’s thrown backward, her head striking the edge of a desk with a wet snap. She doesn’t move. Her eyes are open. Her mouth is a dark hole.
The pressure outside spikes.
The window in front of Kevin bulges.
“Kevin,” I say.
He looks at me. For a second, we’re just two people on a strange angle, in a room full of screaming, bleeding strangers, and then—
The window explodes.
It doesn’t break outward. It shatters inward, like it’s been punched from the outside by something huge.
Glass rains in.
I throw up my arms as shards cut across my cheeks, my forearms, my neck. Warm blood mixes with the dust.
Kevin is gone.
Not dead. Gone.
Pulled.
The air rushes in like a physical hand. His jacket is still in his chair, empty, flapping. His body is out there, gone in a flash of shadow, only a smear of red on the windowsill left behind.
I choke on the sudden rush of air. It smells of salt and decay and something sweet, like old flowers left in the sun.
The room is chaos.
People are screaming now, real screams. A man is on his hands and knees, trying to crawl away from the broken window, but the suction drags him forward. His briefcase slides out from under him, then his laptop, then his legs. He claws at the carpet, at a desk leg, at anything.
His belt gets caught on a chair. He dangles for a moment, face to the floor, eyes bulging. Then the chair rips out of the floor with a splintering crack and he’s yanked into the black.
His scream cuts off like a switched-off radio.
I’m pressed against my desk, knees scraping the carpet, blood running down my arms in thin red lines. The pressure is monstrous. My chest feels like it’s being squeezed by invisible arms.
More windows crack.
The hiss outside grows louder.
I see shapes moving beyond the shattered glass now. Not buildings. Not sky.
Masses. Rippling, shifting, black as a bruise.
They’re touching the building.
Something long and pale lashes across the skyline, like a tail made of bone and flesh, then sinks into the darkness between towers.
A woman next to me is clutching her chest, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. She looks at me. Then her body jerks as if tugged by a string, and she’s lifted off her feet, dragged to the hole in the window, and gone.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Open the door,” I say, but I don’t know to whom.
The hallway is tilting badly. The fire exit sign blinks: EXIT / EXIT / EXIT.
I push off the desk, half-run, half-slide down the slant of the floor. My shoes squeal. I pass the man whose head broke on the desk. I don’t look.
At the doorway, the corridor is a canyon of panic.
People are running. Some are crawling. A nurse in scrubs is dragging a child by the arm, but the kid’s legs are wrong—twisted, bent at impossible angles, no blood but the skin is purple and split.
She doesn’t seem to notice.
The lights above the hall pulse like a heartbeat.
I hear a sound behind me.
Not glass. Not screams.
It’s like something huge dragging itself along the outside of the building. Wet. Heavy.
The corridor sways again. Someone loses their footing and slides down the hall, head first, until they hit the wall and stop.
I don’t stop.
I reach the stairwell door. The handle is hot under my palm. I twist, push, and it opens to a stairwell that’s already lit by a dying emergency bulb.
People are pouring up the stairs, some sobbing, some cursing, some silent.
I go down.
The stairs vibrate under my feet. The building is breathing. I can feel it in my teeth.
Halfway down to the twentieth, the air changes.
It’s warmer. Thicker.
I turn, and I see it.
From the floor above, something is dripping.
Dark, viscous, too slow to be water. It splashes onto the steps, sizzling slightly.
Then a hand appears over the railing.
Not human. Too long. The fingers split into too many joints, blackened at the tips, oozing.
It claws at the air, then grips the railing.
A wet tearing sound, and a shape begins to pull itself through the hole in the floor where the ceiling should be.
Someone above me screams. I don’t look up.
I run.
The stairs sway. The walls flex. The air tastes of iron and rot.
I reach the twentieth-floor landing and burst into a hallway that’s already half-destroyed. Desks have slid into the corridor. A vending machine lies on its side, cans spilling like silver teeth.
Someone’s leg sticks out from under a fallen beam. The ankle is bent wrong. The shoe is filled with blood.
I don’t stop.
Behind me, the building gives a shuddering groan, louder than before, and the lights die completely.
Only the red EXIT signs glow now, bleeding their light into the dust.
The hiss outside is everywhere.
Something slams into the wall at the end of the hall.
Plaster explodes. A chunk of wall falls, revealing something behind it: not brick, not concrete.
Pores.
Living, heaving pores, pink and wet, with tiny black hairs that twitch.
The building is alive.
I realize it all at once.
This isn’t a structure.
It’s a shell. A ribcage. A ribcage around something breathing.
I back away, then I force myself to move again, down the hall, toward the service stairs.
I hear voices above me. They sound far away, like they’re underwater.
Then silence.
The floor tilts again, more sharply than before.
I slide, catch a doorframe, and look up.
The ceiling above is gone in places. Through the gaps, I see not the floor above, but the black, churning mass outside. Something moves in it, vast and slow, like a whale in an ocean of night.
It’s coming closer.
A shadow falls across me.
I look up.
A single eye, huge and yellow and unblinking, presses against the hole in the building, staring down.
Its surface ripples, and I see my own reflection: small, bleeding, terrified.
The building groans, and then, without warning, it lurches.
I’m thrown sideways.
I slide, down the hall, toward the broken edge of the floor where a chunk has sheared off and fallen away.
My hand catches the edge of a desk. I dangle.
Below me: nothing but black and the faint glow of distant lights that are not the city.
The eye above me blinks.
Something long and pale uncoils from the darkness and lashes down, wrapping around the edge of the building.
The structure shudders.
I feel myself lifting, inches at a time, as if the desk is being pulled upward.
I claw at the wood, at the edge of the floor, at anything.
Then the desk tears free.
I’m in the air.
For a moment I’m weightless, screaming, hands grasping at nothing.
I fall.
But I don’t hit the ground.
I’m caught.
Something warm and wet closes around me. I’m pressed against a surface that breathes, that pulses. I try to scream, but the pressure is too great.
I see the eye again, huge above, now smiling in a way no eye should smile.
A voice, deep and wet and intimate, brushes against my mind:
“Finally.”
I try to move, but my limbs are locked. The thing around me is soft and strong, pulling me in. I can hear people still screaming inside the building, but their voices are distant now, like radio static.
The last thing I see is the skyline, writhing, shifting, not glass and steel at all, but flesh and bone, and the buildings around us folding inward like petals around a flower.
Then darkness.
Then warmth.
Then a single thought, not mine, echoing in the quiet where my mind used to be:
“Welcome home.”
