You grip the pen. The ink feels heavy, like it doesn't just write - it carves.
The city is waiting. The figure is watching. The book is breathing.
You press the tip to the page. And you write.
"The story continues… but I am no longer a part of it."
The moment the words form, the air splits.
A deep, unnatural shudder runs through the city. The neon signs crackle and burst. The streets stretch, warp - like a film reel unraveling.
The figure tilts their head. Their smile is small. Almost… approving.
"Clever."
The book snaps shut.
And the world falls away.
You don't wake up.
You simply… are.
Standing in the middle of nowhere.
A vast, white expanse stretches in all directions. No sky. No walls. Nothing.
But you can still hear it.
Distant echoes. Footsteps on pavement. The murmur of the city, still alive, still continuing - without you.
You look down. The book is gone. The pen is gone.
And so is your reflection.
You step forward—
And your foot doesn't make a sound.
Your breath catches. You touch your arm, your chest - your body feels solid. But the world no longer recognizes you.
The city kept going. You didn't.
"Did I escape… or erase myself?"
A new horror settles in.
If you are no longer part of the story…
Then where are you?
You try to breathe, but the air here doesn't move.
You step forward, but your foot doesn't make a sound.
There is nothing around you. Nothing beneath you. And yet, you're standing. Existing.
But are you?
Your hands tremble as you touch your face. Your body feels real. But the world doesn't react to you. No reflection. No shadow.
No proof that you're here at all.
"This isn't escape."
"This is erasure."
The realization is slow and suffocating. You wrote yourself out of the city. But you didn't reappear in the real world.
You're trapped in the space between stories.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the city. Not from anywhere you recognize.
From… something else.
A faint scratching sound, like pen against paper.
You turn - and the white void is no longer empty.
A single object stands in the endless white.
A door.
No walls around it. No building. Just a door, standing on its own.
And on the other side - a voice.
Soft. Familiar. But wrong.
"It's not finished yet."
The scratching sound continues.
You take a step closer.
If someone is still writing…
If the story is still going…
Who is telling it now?
And what are they changing?
You reach for the door handle—
Do you open it.
You grip the handle.
The whispering behind the door doesn't stop. The scratching of pen on paper continues.
"It's not finished yet."
Your pulse pounds.
You don't remember writing those words.
So who did?
You turn the handle.
The door swings open.
Beyond the door is not the city. Not the real world.
It's… a study.
A small, dimly lit room filled with old books, loose pages scattered across a wooden floor. The walls are lined with shelves, but there are no titles on the books. Just empty spines.
A desk sits in the center. And in the chair—
Someone is writing.
Or rather, something.
The thing in the chair is not human.
It's hunched over the desk, its fingers stained black with ink. Its skin is paper-thin, its veins like scribbled lines.
And it is writing.
Not on paper. Not in a book.
It is writing reality.
Every time its pen scratches across the desk, the words appear in the air - floating, shifting - before vanishing.
You step closer, and your stomach turns to ice.
Because the words being written are—
Ahandreachesforthedoorhandle. Abreathcatchesinathroat. Theforgottenonestepsinside.
The thing is writing you.
In real-time.
And then—
It stops.
The ink-thing lifts its head.
And it turns to look at you.
The ink-figure tilts its head.
Its eyes - if they can be called that - are smudges of black, shifting and unreadable.
It does not move. It does not breathe.
But its pen…
It twitches in its fingers. Ready to write.
"You're not supposed to be here."
The voice is not sound. It is a thought, a truth that slithers into your mind without permission.
You step forward. Your mouth is dry, your pulse hammering.
"Who are you?"
The ink-figure doesn't answer. Instead, it lifts the pen—
And writes.
Theforgottenonestumbles. Theirbreathcatches. Theirkneesweaken.
A violent dizziness slams into you. Your vision blurs, your body tilting forward against your will.
Your legs buckle. You collapse to your knees.
It is writing you.
Your fingers dig into the floor - but the floor isn't wood anymore. It's turning to paper.
Your skin is turning to paper.
The ink-figure dips its pen again. It is waiting. Watching.
"Do you want to be rewritten?"
"Or do you want to write?"
The pen is still in its fingers. But the desk—
The desk is large enough for two.
The ink-figure tilts its head. Its hand begins to extend.
It is offering you the pen.
The ink-figure's fingers hover, the pen glinting with an impossible darkness.
A pen that doesn't just write stories.
A pen that writes existence.
"Choose."
Your breath shudders. The floor beneath you twitches, warping between paper and wood. Your body is flickering - not just here, but somewhere else.
You don't know where.
Because the truth is sinking in.
The city was never real.
You were never real.
You are just words on a page.
And if you take the pen—
What happens to the old writer?
You glance at the ink-figure, its hollow eyes locked onto yours.
Did it always look like this?
Or was it once someone else?
Your fingers tremble.
Do you take the pen?
Or do you refuse - and let yourself be erased?
Your hand closes around the pen.
The ink-figure does not resist. It simply… fades.
The pen feels heavy. The desk shifts beneath you, its surface smooth and endless. And before you—
The city.
It waits.
It is unfinished.
Your fingers twitch. You could write anything.
Do you bring the city back? Change it? Do you write yourself free - or something worse?
You shake your head. No.
The ink-figure's fingers close around the pen once more.
And then it begins writing.
Theforgottenonefades. Theirstoryneverhappened. Thecitywasnevertheirstoescape.
Your vision blurs.
Your hands disappear.
Your thoughts unravel.
You are being erased.
And the last thing you see—
Is the ink-figure writing another name.
A new protagonist.
Your fingers hover over the pen.
The ink-figure does not blink. It simply waits.
This is what it has always done.
It waits for the next writer.
It waits for the next prisoner.
But something is wrong.
The ink-figure's hand - it's shaking.
Just barely. But you see it.
And then it hits you.
It's afraid.
Not of you.
Of the choice you haven't made yet.
Your eyes dart to the desk. To the endless city before you. The pages stretch out - unfinished, waiting for ink.
You don't pick up the pen.
You don't walk away.
Instead - you do something neither option allows.
You tear the page.
Rip.
The ink-figure jerks back. Its body shudders, distorts—
Because this is something that was never supposed to happen.
The words can be written.
The words can be erased.
But what happens when the page is torn?
Reality cracks.
The city shakes.
And something else begins seeping through.
Not ink. Not paper.
Something older.
Something the ink-figure was trying to keep out.
The page tears open.
Not like paper. Like skin.
A jagged wound in reality, curling at the edges like burned parchment.
The ink-figure staggers back. For the first time - it looks afraid.
Not of you.
Not of the tear.
But of what's coming through it.
Something moves inside the crack.
Not ink. Not words.
Something older than writing itself.
You made a mistake.
The ink-figure's voice is no longer steady. It reaches for you—
But it's too late.
The wound in reality rips wider.
And then you see them.
The Unwritten.
You know them.
Even before you see them, you feel it—the wrongness.
They move like memories that were never real.
They shift like people you should remember - but don't.
Their voices are a whisper of stories that were never told.
And when their eyes lock onto yours—
They smile.
"You finally let us out."
And the worst part?
They remember you.
And they want you to remember them.
Because once you remember something, it becomes real.
And if you make them real - they can rewrite you instead.
The ink-figure lunges for you.
"Don't listen to them!"
Its voice is sharp, desperate. Not commanding, but pleading.
Because it knows.
It knows what the Unwritten really are.
And it knows that if you listen - if you believe in them—
You will never be yourself again.
But the Unwritten just keep smiling.
They hold out their hands.
"We've missed you."
And deep down—
You almost remember them.