I noticed that Opus4.6 tried to get creative and actually write a fantasy-ish story whereas GPT5.2 mostly just elaborated on your notes, making its task a bit easier. So I tried prompting GPT5.2 identically but with “write a fantasy story in the style of Terry Pratchett” prepended and got this:
GPT5.2
The Refrigerator That Went the Wrong Way
Everyone knows that time is a river¹, except in certain parts of the city where it is more of a municipal plumbing problem.
The first indication that something had gone wrong with the fridge was the soup.
Tarin Gloss, junior time-magics student, senior refrigerator tinkerer, and unpaid intern at ChronoCool Solutions (Ltd., Pending, Hopefully), had placed a bowl of soup into the prototype unit at exactly seven minutes past noon. It had been piping hot, aromatic, and optimistically labeled Lunch.
At seven minutes past twelve and thirty seconds, Tarin opened the fridge again and found the soup… older.
Not cold. Not frozen. Older. The carrots had softened with the weary resignation of vegetables that had seen too much of the world. A thin skin had formed, the culinary equivalent of a sigh.
“Well,” Tarin said, because saying well is what sensible people say when reality begins quietly rearranging itself.
This was, admittedly, not the fridge’s intended function. The marketing document—three pages long and mostly exclamation marks—had promised temporal deceleration, preservation, and a revolution in baked goods. Instead, the fridge appeared to be aging things aggressively, like a pessimistic aunt.
Still, Tarin was not alarmed. Time did funny things in this city. Sometimes it paused for paperwork. Sometimes it reversed for tax reasons. Sometimes it just… sulked.
They did what any responsible chronomancer would do: they put a mechanical timepiece inside.
The watch came out having experienced approximately twelve years.
“That’s odd,” Tarin said, writing this down under Minor Irregularities.
ChronoCool Solutions was, after all, a startup. Irregularities were expected. Encouraged, even, as long as they could be rebranded as features.
The real trouble began the next day, when Tarin opened the fridge and found a loaf of bread already inside.
It was unmistakably their bread. Same flour, same slightly lopsided shape, same faint scorch mark from the oven that ran hot on the left. They took it out, frowned at it, and—after a moment’s consideration—put a different loaf in.
They closed the door.
They opened it again.
The original loaf was back.
There are moments in life when the universe clears its throat.
Tarin sat down very carefully.
Time travel, it turned out, fit the facts uncomfortably well.
The fridge did not slow time. It reversed it, locally, internally, and only while powered. Anything inside could loop. And anything that could loop could, with sufficient enthusiasm and poor judgment, exit itself.
Which is how Tarin met themselves.
The time-clone was standing in the kitchen, wearing Tarin’s coat, holding Tarin’s wallet, and looking extremely tired.
“Don’t panic,” the clone said, immediately causing panic. “I’m you, but later. Slightly. And more experienced. Also, we lost the money the first time.”
“What money?”
“The gambling money. Never bet everything on Thunderhoof. He looks honest. He’s not.”
There was, regrettably, no fantasy stock market. But there were horse races, and fantasy horses are subject to all the usual uncertainties plus at least one curse per season. A few hours’ foreknowledge went a long way.
The loop was only several hours long, which made it manageable. It merely extended the day, like an unexpected appendix. Tarin would bet, lose, step into the fridge, return earlier, adjust strategy. The second loop was better. The third was profitable.
The fourth was educational.
Covering for oneself turned out to be harder than time travel. ChronoCool still expected Tarin to show up to meetings, answer emails, and not behave as if they had personally stepped on causality’s toes. The winnings had to be put back where they belonged. Time-Tarin #2 generously handed over extra coins.
“For the next run,” they said. “Trust me.”
Tarin stepped into the fridge.
And did not step out again.
Time-Tarin #2 straightened their coat, smiled at the empty kitchen, and went to work.
Things continued in this fashion until the city’s racing authority noticed that someone was winning far too consistently and banned Tarin for cheating, temporal or otherwise.
At which point Tarin did the sensible thing.
They told a business partner.
The partner listened carefully, nodded, and said, “Oh good. You’ve figured it out too.”
They introduced Tarin to Protagonist #3, who was, technically speaking, Tarin #4, and who had already used the failsafe device—installed discreetly in a rented dockside storage unit—to go back and place the bets that had gotten them all banned.
“I thought you did that,” Tarin said.
“Oh no,” said Protagonist #3 cheerfully. “That was me. Sorry.”
The fridge hummed softly in the background, aging bread, preserving heat, and quietly turning time into a commodity.
After all, you could take money back— if you could buy and sell gold— and if you could buy and sell time, well.
That was just good business.
Not bad imitation of the tone, but it also seems to have gotten the bread stuff wrong, writing:
The real trouble began the next day, when Tarin opened the fridge and found a loaf of bread already inside.
It was unmistakably their bread. Same flour, same slightly lopsided shape, same faint scorch mark from the oven that ran hot on the left. They took it out, frowned at it, and—after a moment’s consideration—put a different loaf in.
I noticed that Opus4.6 tried to get creative and actually write a fantasy-ish story whereas GPT5.2 mostly just elaborated on your notes, making its task a bit easier. So I tried prompting GPT5.2 identically but with “write a fantasy story in the style of Terry Pratchett” prepended and got this:
GPT5.2
The Refrigerator That Went the Wrong Way
Everyone knows that time is a river¹, except in certain parts of the city where it is more of a municipal plumbing problem.
The first indication that something had gone wrong with the fridge was the soup.
Tarin Gloss, junior time-magics student, senior refrigerator tinkerer, and unpaid intern at ChronoCool Solutions (Ltd., Pending, Hopefully), had placed a bowl of soup into the prototype unit at exactly seven minutes past noon. It had been piping hot, aromatic, and optimistically labeled Lunch.
At seven minutes past twelve and thirty seconds, Tarin opened the fridge again and found the soup… older.
Not cold. Not frozen. Older. The carrots had softened with the weary resignation of vegetables that had seen too much of the world. A thin skin had formed, the culinary equivalent of a sigh.
“Well,” Tarin said, because saying well is what sensible people say when reality begins quietly rearranging itself.
This was, admittedly, not the fridge’s intended function. The marketing document—three pages long and mostly exclamation marks—had promised temporal deceleration, preservation, and a revolution in baked goods. Instead, the fridge appeared to be aging things aggressively, like a pessimistic aunt.
Still, Tarin was not alarmed. Time did funny things in this city. Sometimes it paused for paperwork. Sometimes it reversed for tax reasons. Sometimes it just… sulked.
They did what any responsible chronomancer would do: they put a mechanical timepiece inside.
The watch came out having experienced approximately twelve years.
“That’s odd,” Tarin said, writing this down under Minor Irregularities.
ChronoCool Solutions was, after all, a startup. Irregularities were expected. Encouraged, even, as long as they could be rebranded as features.
The real trouble began the next day, when Tarin opened the fridge and found a loaf of bread already inside.
It was unmistakably their bread. Same flour, same slightly lopsided shape, same faint scorch mark from the oven that ran hot on the left. They took it out, frowned at it, and—after a moment’s consideration—put a different loaf in.
They closed the door.
They opened it again.
The original loaf was back.
There are moments in life when the universe clears its throat.
Tarin sat down very carefully.
Time travel, it turned out, fit the facts uncomfortably well.
The fridge did not slow time. It reversed it, locally, internally, and only while powered. Anything inside could loop. And anything that could loop could, with sufficient enthusiasm and poor judgment, exit itself.
Which is how Tarin met themselves.
The time-clone was standing in the kitchen, wearing Tarin’s coat, holding Tarin’s wallet, and looking extremely tired.
“Don’t panic,” the clone said, immediately causing panic. “I’m you, but later. Slightly. And more experienced. Also, we lost the money the first time.”
“What money?”
“The gambling money. Never bet everything on Thunderhoof. He looks honest. He’s not.”
There was, regrettably, no fantasy stock market. But there were horse races, and fantasy horses are subject to all the usual uncertainties plus at least one curse per season. A few hours’ foreknowledge went a long way.
The loop was only several hours long, which made it manageable. It merely extended the day, like an unexpected appendix. Tarin would bet, lose, step into the fridge, return earlier, adjust strategy. The second loop was better. The third was profitable.
The fourth was educational.
Covering for oneself turned out to be harder than time travel. ChronoCool still expected Tarin to show up to meetings, answer emails, and not behave as if they had personally stepped on causality’s toes. The winnings had to be put back where they belonged. Time-Tarin #2 generously handed over extra coins.
“For the next run,” they said. “Trust me.”
Tarin stepped into the fridge.
And did not step out again.
Time-Tarin #2 straightened their coat, smiled at the empty kitchen, and went to work.
Things continued in this fashion until the city’s racing authority noticed that someone was winning far too consistently and banned Tarin for cheating, temporal or otherwise.
At which point Tarin did the sensible thing.
They told a business partner.
The partner listened carefully, nodded, and said, “Oh good. You’ve figured it out too.”
They introduced Tarin to Protagonist #3, who was, technically speaking, Tarin #4, and who had already used the failsafe device—installed discreetly in a rented dockside storage unit—to go back and place the bets that had gotten them all banned.
“I thought you did that,” Tarin said.
“Oh no,” said Protagonist #3 cheerfully. “That was me. Sorry.”
The fridge hummed softly in the background, aging bread, preserving heat, and quietly turning time into a commodity.
After all, you could take money back— if you could buy and sell gold— and if you could buy and sell time, well.
That was just good business.
Not bad imitation of the tone, but it also seems to have gotten the bread stuff wrong, writing:
which seems confused.