Author's Note:
If you read Chapter 6 before 21:43 PM on April 4th, 2025, congratulations - you were part of the glitch in the system. I deleted it. Rewrote it. Rewired my brain in the process (don't ask).
This is the real version now.
Also—
I did see some of your comments asking me to join your Discord. I went back to find it, but now the comment's vanished. Yes, I'd love to discuss the story with you and the group. Drop the invite link again, and I'll add it immediately
If you're seeing this after April 4th… just keep reading. You're exactly where you're meant to be.
(Probably.)
•
The ink-figure wrenches you back, its form flickering like a glitch in reality.
"You can't trust them. You can't even trust yourself."
You feel the weight of its words.
Because deep down—
You already know they're true.
But the Unwritten just smile.
And they hold out their hands.
"We've missed you."
And somewhere inside—
You almost miss them too.
Because maybe—
Maybe you were one of them all along.
The wound in the page widens. The city warps.
This is the moment everything changes.
• Do you listen to the Unwritten? If you do, you may never be yourself again.
• Does the ink-figure try to erase them? But if it fails, what does that mean for you?
• Or do you finally understand - that you were never on the right side of this story to begin with?
The ink bleeds through the streets.
The sky flickers.
And the Unwritten keep smiling.
"Come back to us."
Because if you remember them—
They win.
And if they win—
The story won't be yours anymore.
This is about whether you ever truly existed at all.
And whether you're willing to find out.
The city is unraveling.
Buildings stretch and distort, their windows bending like melting wax. The streets ripple underfoot, turning soft, unstable - no longer roads but ink bleeding into the air.
The Unwritten move closer, their smiles growing.
"You were never supposed to exist."
The words sink into your skin, settle in your bones. And yet—
You do exist.
Even if the story says otherwise.
The ink-figure tightens its grip on your wrist, fingers digging into your arm like it can anchor you here - keep you from slipping into something else.
"Don't let them in."
But it's already too late.
Because the moment you hesitated—
They saw it.
And now?
They're rewriting you.
A jolt of wrongness crashes through you - like a door unlocking inside your mind.
And suddenly, the memories aren't just flickers anymore. They're yours.
You were here before.
You made a choice.
And now you have to face it.
But what was the choice?
• Were you erased, but something went wrong - and you came back?
• Did you choose to forget something - only for it to catch up with you?
• Or were you never real to begin with - a story abandoned before it was finished?
The Unwritten watch you closely.
Waiting.
Because the moment you remember—
You won't be able to undo it.
The ink-figure moves between you and them, its form glitching.
"You don't have to go with them."
Its voice is breaking. Not commanding, not even pleading - just tired.
Like it's seen this before.
Like it knows how this ends.
But the Unwritten only tilt their heads, unbothered.
"They don't have to come with us."
"They just have to remember."
And the moment they say it—
You do.
You see it all.
The truth slams into you like a flood, too much, too fast.
The ink-figure stumbles back.
"No—"
But it's already happening.
The city is gone.
The world twists, bends, rewrites itself around you.
The Unwritten step closer, their hands outstretched—
"You belong with us."
And deep down—
You know they're right.
But that doesn't mean you have to accept it.
• Do you embrace the Unwritten —and become something new?
• Do you fight to hold onto yourself - even if it means being hunted?
• Or do you do the impossible - rewrite the story itself?
Because for the first time—
You have the pen.
And this time—
You get to decide what stays and what goes.
The world bends.
You feel it in your bones, in the ink bleeding through your veins. The city is collapsing, unraveling like a half-finished sentence.
And the Unwritten—
They are waiting.
"Choose."
Their voices curl through the air, layered, overlapping - like they are not just speaking now, but have always been speaking, always waiting for this moment.
The ink-figure is breaking apart, its form glitching like a story caught between drafts.
"You don't have to listen to them."
But you do.
Because something inside you is listening.
Something inside you is changing.
They step closer, their bodies shifting in and out of focus. Their faces - blurred, incomplete - like memories you should have but don't.
"We were erased."
"We were forgotten."
"But you—"
One of them tilts their head, their eyes sharp, knowing.
"You wrote yourself back in."
And suddenly, you understand.
You were erased.
You weren't supposed to exist.
But instead of fading, instead of becoming nothing—
You rewrote yourself into the story.
That's why the city doesn't remember you.
That's why the Presence tried to erase you again and again.
Because you're not just a mistake.
You're an anomaly.
And that makes you dangerous.
The ink-figure stumbles toward you, reaching out, fingers smearing ink into the air.
"They're lying."
But even it sounds uncertain now.
Like it's not sure what's real anymore.
Like maybe - just maybe - it's afraid of you, too.
"You don't have to become them."
The Unwritten smile.
"They're afraid of you because they know the truth."
"You don't have to become us."
"But you already are."
The ground fractures beneath your feet.
The city is breaking apart.
The story is breaking apart.
And you—
You have to decide what happens next.
For the first time, you are not running.
For the first time, you are not being erased.
You are writing.
• Do you embrace the Unwritten and step beyond the city, into a world that was never meant to exist?
• Do you fight to stay yourself, even if it means tearing apart reality to do it?
• Or do you do something else entirely - rewrite the very nature of the Unwritten, and change the story itself?
Because for the first time—
This story doesn't have an ending.
And you are holding the pen.
The world is trembling.
The sky above the city is splitting, ink dripping like rain, erasing streets, buildings - entire pieces of existence vanishing with each falling drop.
And yet—
You are still here.
Still standing.
The Unwritten are watching, their eyes shifting, flickering, waiting.
The ink-figure is barely holding itself together.
"If you do this, there's no going back."
But that's the thing—
There was never a "back" to go to.
There was only ever this.
The Unwritten hold out their hands.
"Step forward."
The ink-figure clenches its fists.
"Resist."
The city crumbles beneath you.
Reality itself is waiting for your next words.
And you—
You lift the pen.
What do you write?
• A New World: You accept the Unwritten, stepping beyond the city into something else. A place not bound by rules, not controlled by the Presence - something entirely your own.
• A Fight Against Fate: You reject them, refusing to be swallowed by their reality. You hold onto your story, even if it means tearing apart everything else to stay you.
• A Story Unfinished: You do something else entirely - you refuse to choose. You let the ink flow, reshaping everything into something the Presence, the city, the Unwritten never expected.
And as the ink swirls, as the world twists and reforms—
Something answers you back.
"Ah."
"So this is the story you've chosen."
The pen drips.
The rewrite begins.
The ink floods everything.
Not just the streets. Not just the sky.
It moves through you.
For a moment, you are nothing but words.
Then—
You are rewritten.
The world is not the same.
• The buildings stretch, shift, change - no longer bound by the city's old rules.
• The Unwritten? They remain. But they are no longer just fragments. They are whole.
• The ink-figure? It is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.
And you—
You are still here.
But you are not the same.
"Look at what you've done."
A voice, soft, familiar.
You turn.
Someone stands before you.
They have your face.
They have your eyes.
But they are not you.
"You rewrote reality."
"But did you ever wonder… what happened to the version of you that existed before?"
The ink is still dripping.
And for the first time—
You realize you are not the only one holding a pen.
The ink ripples.
The city breathes, its streets warping, buildings shifting, twisting into something new.
But so do you.
Your reflection - your other self - watches with an unreadable expression.
They hold a pen identical to yours.
"You rewrote reality."
"But did you think you'd be the only one?"
They tilt their head, ink dripping from their fingertips.
And then—
They begin to write.
The world stutters.
• The street beneath your feet shatters - and suddenly, you're standing in an alley you've never seen before.
• The sky flickers - dusk, midnight, dawn, all at once.
• The Unwritten pause. They glance between you and your reflection, uncertain.
Because now?
There are two versions of reality.
And only one can remain.
"You thought you were the main character?"
"You thought this was your story?"
"What if I'm the real one - and you're the rewrite?"
Their words seep into you like ink through paper.
Because deep down - you don't know.
Did you rewrite the world?
Or did they rewrite you?
The ink-figure - if they still exist - does not appear.
The Unwritten do not interfere.
This is between you and your reflection.
"If you want to prove you exist…"
"Then write me out."
They smirk.
And then—
They begin erasing you.
What do you do?
You clutch your pen.
Ink seeps from your palm like blood.
Your reflection - your rival - grins as they erase the street beneath your feet, and suddenly you're falling.
Into nothing.
Into something they wrote.
You land hard.
But not in your world.
This one is theirs.
It looks like the city. But the shadows breathe. The buildings whisper your doubts back to you. The signs on the walls flicker with memories that aren't yours.
Your name is different here.
Your past is a draft.
And every step you take—
You lose something of yourself.
"This is my story now," they say, their voice echoing from the glass windows around you.
But you know something they don't.
They may have written this place.
But they didn't live it.
You draw a line of ink across the air. The pen hums. The false city staggers. The shadows scream and dissolve.
"You can write, sure," you whisper. "But I remember."
Because that's what makes your story real.
Not the ink.
Not the pen.
But the pain.
The fear.
The choice to keep going when nothing made sense.
You slash again. The reflection snarls, stumbling back.
"Fine," they hiss. "Let's find out whose ending survives."
And the city—
Begins to collapse between two pens writing at once.