The office clock ticked like a dying heartbeat — slow, hollow, merciless.
Each second dragged me deeper into the same gray void I called life.
Rows of cubicles stretched before me, filled with the faint buzz of monitors and tired souls pretending to care. People laughed, whispered, lived — and I just... existed.
I was invisible. never noticed I was fading.
My name is Arjun — twenty-seven, average in every possible way.
Average job. Average face. Average dreams that died before they even began.
By the time the last monitor dimmed, I shut the computer, stepped out into the neon-lit city, and felt the weight of another meaningless day press down on my chest.
Home wasn't any better.
A single-room apartment. Peeling paint. A fan that groaned like it wanted to die too.
I dropped my bag, collapsed on the bed, and stared at the ceiling until my thoughts blurred into static.
And then... I saw it.
A book.
Half-buried under a pile of dust and forgotten notebooks. Its cover was cracked, the pages yellowed — but on the front, a strange golden emblem shimmered faintly under the dim light: a bird bound in chains.
I didn't remember buying it.
Yet, somehow... it felt familiar.
Curiosity replaced exhaustion. I opened it. The smell of old ink and time filled the room.
The story began simply — about a girl named Lysandra. A thief. A criminal.
But as I read, the world started to shift.
Lysandra wasn't just a thief — she was a rebel. She had stolen proof of corruption from a powerful lord, hoping to expose him.
Instead, she was betrayed, hunted, and condemned.
Her story wasn't written like fiction — it bled. Every word trembled with pain and fury. I could feel her breath in the dark, hear the chains rattle around her wrists.
And then, something strange happened.
The words began to move.
The letters bled off the page like black smoke. My head spun, my vision blurred.
I tried to close the book — but I couldn't.
The air grew cold, my heart thundered, and the pages burst with light.
Then—
darkness.
It was the kind of black that eats the world whole.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my room.
The floor beneath me was stone — wet, rough, cold enough to burn.
Chains bit into my wrists.
The air was heavy with blood and mildew.
My mind screamed, but my body wouldn't move. Torches flickered on the dungeon walls, Two armored guards stood before me, eyes hidden, but their hatred was clear.
"This is her," one of them muttered. "The traitor."
The word echoed in my skull.
Her.
I looked down — my hands were thinner, paler.
Dark hair brushed my shoulders.
I stumbled toward a puddle — and froze.
The reflection staring back at me wasn't mine.
It was Lysandra's.
My breath caught.
My pulse raced until it hurt.
The shouts above grew louder — a crowd demanding death. My death.
I wasn't reading her story anymore.
I was inside it.
after me up the stone stairs. The air grew colder, sharper with every step.
Through the iron doors ahead, I could see the glow of torches, hear the roar of a thousand voices crying for blood.
I knew this scene.
It was the execution chapter.
The part where Lysandra died.
Panic swallowed me whole.
This couldn't be real.
This couldn't be happening.
And yet — every sound, every breath, every heartbeat was realer than anything I'd ever known.
"No…" I whispered, the word trembling off my lips.
The guards didn't answer.
They shoved me forward.
My wrists burned, my vision shook — and yet, somewhere beneath the fear, something else stirred.
A spark.
A defiance that wasn't mine… or maybe it was.
I clenched my fists, the chains biting into flesh.
If I was meant to die here,
"I will survive," I whispered to the darkness.
My voice was raw, shaking — but alive.
The doors burst open. The crowd roared like an ocean of fury.
And as the first drop of rain hit
This was no longer a story.
It was my life now.
And I would rewrite its ending.
The iron doors slammed open with a thunderous echo that shook through my bones. A blast of cold air struck my face, carrying with it the stench of smoke, sweat, and burning oil. The world outside the dungeon was blinding — torches lined a vast courtyard where hundreds, maybe thousands, of people stood shoulder to shoulder, roaring for blood.
My blood.
Chains clinked as the guards dragged me into the open. Every step felt heavier than the last, my legs trembling under the weight of a body that wasn't mine. The sky above was bruised purple, choked with storm clouds that rumbled like the wrath of some angry god.
On a raised wooden platform stood the gallows. A single noose swayed in the wind, waiting.
My stomach twisted.
I'd read this part — the execution scene. Lysandra was hanged before dawn, accused of treason, her name erased from every record.
No one mourned her.
No one even remembered.
But now, it wasn't her neck the rope was waiting for.
It was mine.
The crowd's shouts blended into a chaotic symphony — "Traitor!" "Witch!" "Hang her!"* The words sliced through me like blades. Faces blurred together — some furious, some gleeful, none kind.
The guards shoved me onto the platform. I stumbled, catching myself just before falling. A priest in black robes stepped forward, holding a scroll. His voice was cold, practiced — like he'd said these words a thousand times before.
"Lysandra Veyne," he declared, "you stand accused of theft, treason, and conspiracy against the crown. Your punishment is death."
The crowd cheered.
I clenched my fists so tightly that my nails dug into my palms. My heart screamed for mercy, but my pride — hers — refused to beg.
"I didn't betray anyone," I tried to speak,
The priest ignored me.
The executioner tightened the noose.
The rope brushed against my neck — coarse, rough, alive with the memory of every soul it had claimed. My chest heaved. My vision blurred.
I didn't want to die.
Not here.
Not like this.
A sudden, electric chill rippled through the air,The torches flickered violently, their flames bending as if bowing to something unseen. Clouds split open with a roar of thunder, and the first raindrop struck the platform — black as ink.
The executioner hesitated. "What in the—"
The second drop fell on my hand — burning hot, like liquid fire.
Pain shot up my arm. I gasped, staring as faint, glowing veins lit beneath my skin — crimson lines spreading like molten rivers. The noose slipped loose as the executioner stepped back, eyes wide in horror.
"She's—she's cursed!" someone shouted.
The ground trembled. The wooden platform cracked beneath my feet.
I felt it — something ancient, something vast awakening inside me. A heartbeat that wasn't human, echoing within my chest.
Chains shattered.
The crowd screamed.
And from deep within me, a voice — soft, furious, and familiar — whispered:
"Rewrite it, Lysandra."
Then everything exploded into fire and light.
lying amidst the ruins of the gallows. The crowd had scattered in terror. Guards lay unconscious, the rain now hissing against embers that glowed around me.
My wrists were free. My body — burning with energy I didn't understand.
I had survived the scene that was supposed to end me.
And for the first time in both her life and mine...
the story had changed.