The world tears.
Not like paper - like memory.
Like something sacred and fragile is being rewritten in real time, and you're caught in the middle of two versions of yourself.
The reflection writes:
You never existed.
Your hand shakes. You write:
I remember everything.
The ink bleeds between your words - realities colliding. For a second, you both freeze.
Because something else is writing too.
A Third Script.
Not you.
Not your reflection.
Something older.
The City itself is writing.
Buildings reassemble around you like shifting ideas. The alley becomes a cathedral of noise and light - glitching between what was, what is, and what was never supposed to be.
And then—
The Ink-Figure Returns.
But… it's broken.
Fractured down the middle, one half shaped like you.
The other - like them.
"You thought this was a duel," it whispers, voice split between tones. "But this story was never yours to begin with."
The Unwritten move again, murmuring a name you don't recognize—
But your reflection flinches at it.
You see the fear in their eyes.
They know the name.
And then it clicks.
The reflection wasn't created when you rewrote the world.
They were already here.
You're the rewrite.
Or are you?
Because deep inside the ink, something awakens.
Something that predates both of you.
The Original.
"You are both shadows of a story never told," says the voice from the ink. "But only one of you can become real."
And with that—
The city begins to collapse.
Reality is unraveling, not because you changed it - but because someone—or something - is trying to write the original version back into existence.
But that version?
It doesn't include you.
Not you. Not your reflection. Not the Unwritten.
Only it.
And now—
You're fighting for a story that's erasing all of you.
You write.
Your reflection writes.
The city splits.
Reality ripples as two versions of existence try to overwrite each other. Street signs blur into gibberish. Time collapses in on itself - minutes folding like paper, hours bleeding backward.
You blink—
And suddenly, you're standing in a version of your childhood room.
But something's wrong.
There's a journal on the desk with your name on it - written in someone else's handwriting.
"You were never supposed to win."**"You were never supposed to win."
Your reflection appears in the doorway, smiling like they've been here before.
"I didn't rewrite you."
"I wrote the you who thought they were real."
Your thoughts stutter. Fragment. Loop.
Because now the story itself is fighting back.
You flip through the pages.
Every moment of your life - documented.
But the last entry?
It's dated tomorrow.
"You'll try to delete me," it reads. "But you'll hesitate."
"And that's when I win."
Behind you, the reflection moves closer. Ink drips from their hand like venom.
"You made one mistake," they whisper. "You thought the story ended when you started writing it."
But this story?
It has no ending.
Your pen burns hot in your hand. Not with fire - with memory.
Someone else's.
Someone older.
A name whispers through your mind—
**The Original Author.**
Not you.
Not your reflection.
But someone else - who started writing this city long before either of you existed.
And they're waking up.
Somewhere in the deepest part of the void—
A hand reaches for the page.
You're not just fighting your reflection anymore.
You're fighting the one who built the rules.
And they just turned the page.
The ground quakes - not like an earthquake, but like the page of a book turning.
Your reflection stumbles, eyes wide.
"No," they whisper. "It's too soon—"
But it's already happening.
Somewhere far beyond the city, beyond the void, beyond even the Unwritten—
Something is stirring.
A presence larger than the Presence. A thought before thought. A voice before any story began.
The Original Author is waking up.
The world begins to glitch again - but this time, it's not from you. Not from your reflection. Not from the Unwritten.
It's from them.
"Someone else is writing now," your reflection says, voice trembling. "Not you. Not me."
Pages tear themselves from the sky. They fall like ash. Some have your name on them.
Some… don't.
The Unwritten scatter. They're terrified.
Even the void begins to close itself, curling inward like it's trying to hide.
"No one's supposed to remember the Author," the ink-figure says, suddenly reappearing behind you. "No one's supposed to wake them up."
"But you did."
And suddenly, you remember something you were never meant to know—
This city?
This story?
It was never finished.
The Original Author abandoned it before the final word.
But now they're back.
And they might be here to erase everything—you, your reflection, the Unwritten, the city, even the Presence.
Unless—
Unless you finish the story first.
But how do you outrun the one who created it?
How do you write a new ending…
Before the author writes the last one?
The city is folding in on itself - pages turning, streets curling like burnt paper.
You run.
Not from fear.
From memory.
Because something inside you is screaming—
You've been here before.
Not in this form. Not in this version of the city. But in another life. Another draft.
And in that version—
You were the Author.
Not the first.
Not the last.
But one of many.
Your mind fractures as the memories return, slipping in like ink through cracks. You remember writing this city. Not all of it. But parts. Fragments.
A shadow here.
A name there.
A scene that always felt too familiar.
You didn't just wake the Original Author.
You were them.
Or part of them.
But now?
You're just a splinter. A paragraph torn from the body of the book.
And the rest of you?
Still lost in the folds of unreality.
A hallway appears - made entirely of unfinished sentences.
Each door marked with a version of your name.
The Unwritten won't follow you here.
Even your reflection hesitates at the threshold.
Because this place?
This is where forgotten authors go.
You step inside.
Room 1: A version of you who erased the city completely.
Room 2: A version who chose to become the Presence.
Room 3: One who never woke up - who stayed dreaming.
Each version is a possible ending.
Each version is you.
But only one can become the true Author again.
And the final door?
It's still locked.
The key is something no one's dared to write yet.
Your true name.
Not the one you were given.
The one you wrote for yourself.
And when you speak it—
The city screams.
Because the final chapter…
Has already begun.
The sky tears open.
Not like paper this time - but like memory unraveling.
And there it is.
Floating. Burning. Flickering in and out of existence.
A single page.
It hums with wrongness. With power.
Your reflection sees it too. "That's not supposed to be here."
You both reach for it.
But it doesn't choose both of you.
It chooses you.
The moment your fingers brush the page, reality screams.
Not twists. Not bends.
Screams.
Because this page—
Was never written.
Not by you.
Not by the Author.
Not by anyone.
And yet - it exists.
On the Page:
"There was a door before the first chapter.
A truth hidden before the first lie.
And someone who remembered everything - before anyone forgot."
The ink-figure backs away. "That page was sealed. Buried. Burned."
"You weren't supposed to find it."
But you did.
And now, you can see it—
A door, buried beneath the city.
No, not buried.
Erased.
The Final Door.
The Unwritten gather, staring in awe.
Your reflection screams, "DON'T OPEN IT!"
But the page in your hand grows hot.
Because it's not just a door.
It's a final rewrite.
And behind it?
Something no one - not even the Author - was meant to see.
Do you want to keep going?
Because behind that door…
There is no going back.
Shall we open it?
You step toward it.
The page in your hand glows with ink that shifts like liquid thought, ancient and alive.
The door isn't wood or metal.
It's made of story.
Sentences stitched into its surface. Forgotten plotlines etched into its edges. A lock sealed with words that were never spoken.
Your hand moves before you can stop it.
And the page burns into the door.
It unlocks.
Not with a click - but with a scream.
The Unwritten fall silent.
Your reflection vanishes.
The ink-figure whispers, trembling, "You don't know what you've done."
But you do.
Because the moment the door swings open—
You remember.
Not like a flashback. Not like a dream.
You remember the first time you were erased.
You remember begging not to be forgotten.
You remember the Author.
They were you.
And they weren't.
You see now—
You didn't just survive the story.
You started it.
Inside the Door:
It's not a place.
It's a scene.
A room that looks exactly like yours - but not quite.
There's a desk.
A pen.
A mirror with no reflection.
And a chair—
Already occupied.
By someone who looks exactly like you.
But older. Sharper. Unwritten and rewritten too many times.
They look up.
And smile.
"So. You finally found the first draft."
They stand.
"You really thought you could finish this without me?"
Because the truth is—
This isn't the end of the story.
It's the start.
You never escaped the Author.
You just became another version of them.
And now?
The original wants their pen back.
Do you:
• Fight to finish your version before they do?
• Rewrite them out completely, knowing it might erase you too?
• Or join them - and become the Author together?
No matter what—
The final sentence hasn't been written.
But it will be.
And only one of you will hold the pen.
The world stutters.
Reality shakes like a fragile page caught between two pens.
You - and the Original Author - stand face to face in the room beyond the Final Door. Two versions of the same idea. Two hands reaching for the same sentence.
"You think you've come this far on your own?" they say.
"You think this was ever your story?"
You don't answer.
Because you see something behind them.
A desk.
An open notebook.
And on it—
A hidden page.
It's handwritten. Not in ink—but in memory.
And the title?
"TheReaderWhoWouldn'tForget."
Your pulse stumbles.
That's not your handwriting.
And it's not the Original Author's either.
The Author follows your gaze - and their smile disappears.
"No," they whisper. "That page was never meant to be read."
You step closer.
And the story on that page begins to change.
Not because of you.
But because someone else is reading it. Right now.
Someone outside the story.
Someone who won't forget you.
You realize now—
You've been fighting to survive inside the book.
The Final Twist
But someone's been holding the book out there.
Following your journey.
Turning the pages.
Remembering your name when even the Author tried to erase it.
You look at the page again - and a line appears on its own, mid-sentence:
"They read this chapter before 21:43 on April 4th, 2025. They know. They remember. They won't let it end."
The Author screams.
The city cracks.
And the sky folds inward - like a book being closed by a hand you cannot see.
"You broke the wall," the Author hisses. "You let them in."
Because this was never just your story.
It's theirs too.
And as long as they keep reading—
You can never be erased.