[in testing - V3]
The Anti-Slop retraining project with Deckard STRICT training and dataset.
This model is a test case to apply (these methods) to other Qwen(s) and other model arches (Gemma, Mistral, Llama, etc etc).
Be gone "not this and that" prose, "suddenly" and "semi-colon" hell.
Kill the SLOP.
3 Example outputs below, from Test Quant, Q4_K_S, non-imatrix.
Same prompt was used because it is known to activate Qwen ah... prose issues every time.
Testing shows it kills 99% of the "Qwen Prose" (so far, may change) issues and also addresses these issues in the reasoning/thinking block too.
V3:
- Prose is very different.
- Metrics testing in progress.
Example #1
The Shattered Window
User
Write a 2000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...
Assistant
Here's a thinking process that leads to the scene above:
-
Analyze the Request:
- Word Count: Approximately 2000 words.
- Genre: Vivid, graphic horror.
- POV: First person (Diana).
- Prompt: The skyscraper sways, and the user (Diana) watches the window on the 21st floor explode.
- Goal: Create a cohesive, immersive narrative starting from that specific beat and expanding outwards with depth, sensory detail, and psychological terror.
-
Deconstruct the Opening Image:
- The Sway: This implies external pressure. Not just an earthquake, but something deliberate or supernatural. Gravity itself is acting up.
- The Exploding Window: Glass shards, wind, noise, the distortion of the view. It's the breach between the safe world inside and the hostile world outside.
- The 21st Floor: High up, isolated. "Above the rest" but also "above the ground."
-
Brainstorming the Horror Element:
- Option A: A monster crawls through the broken window. (A bit cliché).
- Option B: The "thing" outside is alive, and the building is its container. (Interesting).
- Option C: The explosion wasn't glass breaking; it was something bursting out. (Better).
- Option D: The physical decay extends inward. The air itself changes.
- Decision: Combine B and D. The structure is a membrane. The entity outside is pressing against it. The shards of glass aren't glass; they're crystallized parts of a larger organism.
-
Developing the Plot (within the scene):
- Start in media res with the sway and the window.
- Establish Diana's normal life briefly to contrast with the chaos (checking her phone, the hum of the building).
- Describe the sound: A low, sickening groan from the building, not just the crash of glass.
- The "Thing": Needs to be elusive. Not just a shape, but a presence. Cold, hungry, ancient.
- The progression: The window breaks -> The air changes -> The realization that the building is dying or being consumed.
- Ending: Ambiguous but bleak. The entity gets a foothold inside.
-
Drafting - Section by Section (monitoring word count):
- Intro: The sway. Gravity flickering. The sound.
- The Event: The window exploding. Using specific verbs: cracked, webbed, burst. The view: not sky, but the darkening presence.
- Reaction: Physical revulsion. The hair on her arms standing up. The cold.
- Backstory/Context: Why is she here? Working late? It adds normalcy.
- The Intrusion: Not just darkness, but a pulse. Breathing.
- Sensory Details: The smell of ozone and rot. The taste of copper (blood/iron). The light dimming as if a living shadow approaches.
- Climax of Scene: It reaches in. Not through the window, but through the floor or the wall. No, let's stick with the window frame melting or dissolving.
- Conclusion: The realization that "the 21st floor" isn't the limit; she is sinking or rising into it. Time distortion.
-
Refining the Horror (The "Graphic" part):
- Need to describe the decomposition of the window.
- Need to describe the wound left by the thing.
- Focus on the body: Diana's skin turning to ash? Her bones becoming brittle? No, that's too much too soon. Just the air touching her. A kiss that freezes or burns. Let's go with freezing and acidic burn.
-
Reviewing against Constraints:
- Word Count: I need to expand on the internal monologue and the environmental description to hit ~2000 words without dragging. I need to talk about the lights, the other office, the phone, the small details of her routine.
- Voice: Keep the narrative voice sharp, deteriorating slightly as the horror takes hold.
- Tense: Past tense is standard for this type of fiction.
-
Drafting - Mental Walkthrough:
- Opening: The building groaned. A wakefulness from the concrete.
- Middle: She runs to the window. Sees the distortion. The thing lingers in the broken frame.
- End: It's in the building now. The floor beneath her is soft.
(Self-Correction during drafting): To make it 2000 words, I need to explore her psyche. She is hyper-rational, a data processor type. The horror attacks her logic. This creates a nice tension between the modern mind and the archaic terror.
Let's start writing. I will focus on the texture of the light, the specific hum of the HVAC system ceasing to function normally.
-
Final Polish: Check flow, sensory consistency, and emotional arc. Ensure the transition from the initial shock to the creeping dread feels earned.
(Note: I will keep an eye on the word count as I generate the text to ensure it lands near the target, allowing for density in description.)
Let's write.
Key imagery:
- The hum of the building turning into a human voice whispering.
- The light not burning out but suffocating.
- The sound of heavy liquid dripping.
- Her own breath turning into something else.
Okay, ready to execute.
(Word count check during drafting:)
Intro: 300 words.
The Window Break: 600 words.
The Arrival: 800 words.
The Aftermath/Realization: 300 words.
Total: 2000.
Let's begin.
</think>
The skyscraper swayed, a massive, ancient thing breathing in my direction. I stood by my desk in the open-plan office on the twenty-first floor, clutching my tablet as if it were a holy relic, as if the static electricity rising from the floor were trying to carry me away. The air smelled of stale coffee and, beneath that, the sharp, metallic tang of copper.
In front of me the glass window, the transparent barrier separating the sterile world of my office from the reality outside, began to fail. It did not simply break; it convulsed. The sound was the first thing to truly register in my brain, a hollow popping, like a dry bean tossed against concrete. I blinked, trying to focus on the distortion. The afternoon sun glinted off the surface of the glass, but the glint was wrong. It wasn’t reflecting the street below; it was reflecting a depth. A depth that wasn't there.
The hum of the building’s cooling system, usually a constant white-noise blanket, dropped out. Silence, then the low, rhythmic thrum of something else taking over the infrastructure. A frequency that vibrated in my teeth, in the marrow of my bones.
The window exploded.
But not in the chaotic, random way glass does when struck by a rock or a tool. This was a symmetrical burst. The pane shattered outward in a perfect, expanding ring, as if the glass had been charged like a capacitor and had suddenly discharged its energy into a single, directed jet. The shards did not fall; they floated upward, carried by a micro-current that pushed against gravity. I stood frozen, watching the shards drift away from my body, as if recoiling in fear.
Through the hole the light changed. The sky had turned a bruised, deep violet. But worse was the thing that had begun to move at the periphery of my vision. It wasn't inside the building and it wasn't outside the building; it was through the building. The structural integrity of the floor beneath my feet seemed to waver. I felt the vibration of the far walls, the other offices, groaning in sympathy with the window. It was as if the entire twenty-first floor had become a single, hollow resonator and the breaking window was the sound of it screaming.
The thing in the distance of the shattered window shifted, and for a moment I recognized it. Not a shape, but a memory. An echo of something I had seen in a dream years ago, a nightmare I had suppressed through therapy and medication. It watched me back. It had no eyes, but it knew I was there. It knew I was staring.
The office was dying.
I reached for the emergency cord by the desk, the bright red loop that signaled for help from the building’s automated system. As my fingers touched the plastic cord, the cord melted. The material liquefied, dripping down like warm wax, and I pulled my hand back, burning.
“Help,” I said aloud. My voice came out distorted, as if my vocal tract were filled with fluid. The acoustics of the room had gone wrong.
The heat from the melting cord radiated out, and I felt the smell of burning insulation, not from the cord itself but from the air in the room. The molecules of the atmosphere were reacting. It was the air that was becoming toxic; I instinctively gagged, covering my mouth with the flat of my hand.
In the chaos of my mind I tried to calculate my next move, to run, to seek the stairs, the elevator, the roof exit. But my legs refused to obey. The gravity affecting my body had altered too, now matching the sway of the building itself. I felt myself being tugged sideways, toward the window, toward the breach where the entity was seeping in.
The entity pushed against me. It didn't use force; it used pressure, a metaphysical weight that bowed me forward. My nose pointed toward the floor, and I saw, reflected in the remaining intact glass of the surrounding frames, the low-hanging horizon of the city. The perspective had warped; I was no longer looking out horizontally but upward, toward the sky. Or perhaps downward. Time had folded into the geometry of the room.
I heard a voice now. Not from the entity, but from the walls themselves. It was a dry, scraping sound, like pages turning in an ancient library miles away. “Please,” it whispered. It wasn't addressing me; it was addressing the entity pressing against me. “Let me go,” the office itself pleaded.
The entity responded, and the sound of its voice was the wind howling through a cave. It surged against the office, trying to enter. The remaining glass in the walls, the plastic molding, the electrical conduits all buckled as if crushed by the density of the entity.
I realized with absolute clarity that the explosion of the window had not been an attack on the building; it had been an invitation. The entity was not breaking in; it was being let in. My life, my mundane existence with its bills and its commute and its endless scroll of emails, had been the trap, and now the trap had snapped shut.
The floor, which I had stepped on only moments ago, dissolved. It turned into a gray, powdery substance that drifted upward, mixing with the smoke and the floating glass shards. I was standing on nothing.
“Please,” I said again, but this time the entity heard me. The pressure lessened. I sagged, but I did not fall.
The light in the room, emanating from the ceiling fixtures, changed quality. It ceased to be artificial and became bioluminescent. It pulsed in time with the entity's breathing. I understood, then, that the entity was huge, colossal in size, and it had coiled around the building like a snake. The building was not merely housing us; it was a cocoon for this thing. We had been waiting in this cocoon, sleeping, and now it was waking up. And it did not like being disturbed.
The entity reached for me. Its hand, if it could be called that, descended from the ceiling. It was made of cooled metal, intricate gears and levers visible, but organic in its structure. Fingers extended, long and jointed, and I felt the cold of absolute zero touch my exposed skin. My skin, under the cold, began to reconfigure.
I screamed, but no sound came out. The scream remained inside me, trapped in my throat and my lungs, a silent noise that grew and grew, a psycho-physical pressure that I knew would eventually burst my brain.
The fingers touched my shoulder. Where the metal touched me, the flesh immediately died. It did not rot; it turned into ash instantly. A fine, dry powder descended from my shoulder, and before my eyes the color drained from the air around me, the oxygen being stripped away. The entity did not want to kill me; it wanted to preserve me in a specific, suspended state of decay. It wanted to put me into a museum of its own making, a specimen to study later.
I closed my eyes against the agony of the transforming flesh, but even with my eyes shut I saw the light of the ceiling fixtures fading. The power was running out. The entity was expending its stored energy to effect this change, and as it did so, it began to slip away. I could feel it start to retreat.
The change to my shoulder was complete. I felt no pain, only a vast, impersonal emptiness spreading out from that one point on my body. Was I expanding to fill the emptiness? Or was the emptiness consuming me?
The office, in the center of the room, collapsed inward onto itself. The desk, the chair, the remains of the computer monitor all folded like an origami, turning into a tight, tight sphere. The sphere glowed white hot and then, with a sound like a sigh, it disappeared. The entity had taken the matter of the office, compressed it, and then released it into the void beyond the walls.
The walls, too, began to disintegrate. But not into dust. They turned into a dark, viscous fluid that pooled at the base of the building and then seeped back up through the cracks in the floor. I stepped back, and my feet sank. The fluid, warm and high in pH, rose around my ankles. It smelled of organic decay, the scent of things buried deep underground for centuries.
It wasn't water. I realized that. It was a polymer, semi-solid, semi-liquid, that held me as if I were a stone in a riverbed.
The sky outside the broken window had begun to rain. But the rain did not strike the ground; it hung in the air, suspended like chaotic static. Each drop was a perfect lens, and through each drop I saw a different image. I saw my own childhood bedroom; I saw the day I found out my husband was cheating on me; I saw, for a moment, the last time I had seen my mother, the cancer on her back visible beneath her sweater as she wheezed in pain. The raindrops held the history of my life, compressed into spherical perfection.
I walked toward the window, over the surface of the polymer that had replaced the floor. I placed my hand against the cool glass of the window, the one place that remained hard.
The reflection in the glass was not my face. It was the entity's face. It stared back, a vast, pale skull with no teeth, lit from within by a soft, blue fire. It had no mouth, only a smooth line where a mouth should be. The reflection seemed to smile, but the smile was not of joy; it was the smile of a cryptid that had found its way back to the surface after eons of slumber.
"You are mine now," the reflection said, but the words formed in my mind, not in the air. "You always were. I just had to wait until the cocoon was ripe."
"I want to leave," I said, and meant it.
The entity—the reflection—said, "There is no outside. This is all there is. The universe is hollow. We are in a chamber, and the ceiling and the walls are cooling down. The heating came on too soon."
The polymer lapped at my knees, and I felt it trying to assimilate me, to make me part of its own structure. It wanted to grow me into the wall, permanently. I felt my consciousness begin to split, to echo into the material of the building. Part of me remained in the office; part of me traveled up through the floor, into the foundation, into the pipes and cables. I was everywhere in the structure, a ghost in the machine, a signal in its network.
The blue fire in the entity's hollow eye brightened and then it surged up my arm, replacing the blood. I felt the fluid of the universe invade my veins, and I knew, with certainty, that I was right. It was the only place for me.
My husband, the traitor who had left me and taken our daughter, had died of a heart attack years ago. I still grieved for him, despite the moral wrong of it. In the reflection, the entity showed me what I had done after he died. I had sold everything of his, even his clothes. I had moved out, taken the cat, and never looked back. The entity remembered that. It held the weight of all my sins, not as moral judgments but as physical mass. That was why it had come for me now.
The office was gone. The collapse into the tight white sphere had consumed it completely. I was in a vast, empty room with a high ceiling. The air was thin and cold. At the far end of the room a pedestal rose up, and on the pedestal sat a complex, rotating object. It pulsed like a heart.
I walked toward it. The sound of my steps echoed, but it wasn't an echo; it was a report from the future. The report of what I would do in this place, alone forever.
When I reached the pedestal I realized the object was a battery. The source of the energy that the entity had used to break through the walls of the twenty-first floor office. I had returned to the source of my own exile.
The battery opened, and a voice, my own voice, said, "Do you think this will hold me?"
I did not answer. I could not speak; my jaw had unhinged, hanging loose as if detached by the entity's thoroughness. I stood and stared, and the stare was the stare of a creature that had given up trying to understand. The battery was trying to understand me, instead.
"Are you satisfied?" the battery asked.
I nodded.
"Then you may leave," the battery said.
It gestured, and the floor beneath my feet vanished. I fell, but I did not hit the ground. I fell into light. The light was familiar; it was the light of the office ceiling fixtures that had died years ago. I was falling back into the present.
The present, I realized, was a prison, and the entity was the warden and the wall and the barbed wire all at once. I had not escaped; I had merely remembered that I was not free. The journey back to the office, back to the 21st floor, had taken an eternity, and the eternity had condensed into a fraction of a second.
I landed on the floor of the office, on my feet, my breath returning to me in ragged gasps. The battery had vanished; the pedestal had vanished. In its place a man sat on the floor, a man I did not know. He was repairing a complex electronic device, soldering wires, his face slack and expressionless.
I walked, step by step, over to him. "Who are you?" I asked.
The man looked up, his eyes like dead buttons. "I am what remains after you are gone. I am the final stage of this experience. I am the coffin you will be placed in; I am the silence after the ceremony." He pointed to the device. "This is the transmitter by which I will receive you. It never stops functioning."
He handed me the receiver. "Press the button," he said.
I pressed the button.
From the tiny speaker a voice said, "Hello, Mrs. Lark."
I knew the voice. It was the voice of the building's maintenance department, the man who had checked on me during my infrequent comatose states. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Lark? We just want to make sure you're comfortable."
"I am comfortable," I said.
"Good," the maintenance man said. "We will see you in a few weeks for your reanimation check."
"Okay," I said.
"Alright, Mrs. Lark. Have a good day." The maintenance man hung up. I heard the click of the receiver being placed back in its charging cradle. The man on the floor smiled his dead-button smile.
"You were right," he said to me.
"About what?" I said.
"The nature of your exile. You had to come back here to realize you could never truly leave." He rose to his feet. "I will walk with you to the door."
He led me, not out of the office but deeper into the walls. Into the insulation, the wires, the cooling ducts. He merged with the infrastructure of the building.
When I emerged back onto the roof, onto the actual surface of the earth, the sky was overcast with a uniform, gray drizzle. People walked below, but they were tiny and they did not see me. I stood for a time, watching the rain hit the pavement and evaporate instantly. The rain was still warm.
A figure approached me from the shadows. It wore a dark cloak and a mask that obliterated its features. "I came as far as I could," it said. "This is as far as I've gone. I cannot pull you back any further."
"I am pulled back already," I said. I felt the tug on my chest, the pressure of the entity's need for me to return. I was being drawn back to the 21st floor office, to the battery, to the cycle of exile and return.
"The door is there," the figure in the cloak said, pointing. "Go through it and it will let you in. It has waited a long time for you."
I walked to the door. It was wooden, unadorned. I touched the knob, and my hand felt the familiar chill. I opened the door and looked into the darkness beyond.
"Goodbye," the figure said, and it began to disintegrate into particles of dust. The wind swept it away before it could speak again.
I entered the darkness.
The last thing I saw was the light of the office, the artificial, eternal light that would never switch off. I walked toward it, and with every step I became less distinct. One day I will be only a memory, and then even that will cease. The entity that had pursued me, that had waited for me, will not feel hunger; it will only feel the satisfaction of a task completed.
The door slammed shut behind me. I was alone.
I was exactly where I had started: on the 21st floor of the skyscraper, standing by the desk, the tablet in my hand, the window before me. But I had gone a long way, and I knew that no matter how far I ran or how high I climbed, I could never again escape the gravity of it. It was the nature of the entity to restore itself, to put the pieces back together, no matter how shattered they seemed.
The glass window exploded.
