The last thing I remembered was the sound of breaking glass.
It wasn't dramatic—just a short, sharp shatter. Like someone had dropped a wine glass on a tiled floor. Then came the cold. Not physical cold, but the kind that seeps into your thoughts, numbs your heartbeat, and makes you forget you even had a body.
I didn't expect to wake up.
But I did.
And not in a hospital. Not in a void. I woke up in a field of ink.
Yes, ink. Black and shimmering like oil, rippling around my hands and soaking my clothes. I scrambled to my feet, heart thundering. The sky was an unnatural shade of violet, stars blinking like broken pixels. Towering over the horizon were structures that bent at impossible angles—castles with floating pages for flags, mountains shaped like open books, rivers that whispered.
I knew this place.
But I had never been here.
"This can't be real..." I murmured, wiping ink off my palm. "This was just a draft…"
My name is Arin Kael, and I was supposed to die in obscurity—just a college dropout with a dozen unfinished stories, a folder of abandoned worlds, and dreams I could never bring to life.
But this world…
This wasn't one I ever wrote down.
Still, everything around me was too familiar. The scent of old parchment. The constellations in the shape of punctuation marks. Even the wind whispered in narrative tones:
"Chapter One: Arrival of the Forgotten."
My eyes widened.
That voice didn't come from outside. It echoed in my mind like narration—as if the story had already begun without me.
Suddenly, something thudded to the ground in front of me.
A book—bound in deep crimson leather, pages fluttering like it had fallen from the sky. I picked it up, heart racing. There was no title on the cover, just a gold-embossed symbol: a mirror split in half.
I opened the book. My hands trembled.
It was my handwriting.
Line after line. Names I had once jotted in passing. Plot twists I had never shared. Dialogue from characters I never finished creating. This was my world. My thoughts. My drafts.
But I had never written this book.
Then, the page flipped on its own.
"Welcome back, Arin Kael," it read."The story will now begin. This time, don't forget who the author is."
Suddenly, the ground split. Ink geysered upward as something rose from beneath—a dark figure with my face… but not my eyes. His were crimson, gleaming with menace and power. He smiled like he knew every ending I'd ever imagined.
"Found you," he said. "Took you long enough to arrive… Author."
My legs froze. My throat dried up.
"Who… are you?"
He stepped closer, tilting his head. "I'm the version of you who finished the story. The one you left behind."
The world rippled. The pages of the book in my hand caught fire—not with flame, but with light.
And just before everything turned white, I heard that voice again:
"Let the ink decide who remains."