In this endless stretch of paper, drenched in nothing but ink, I'm just the Failed Author. I'm stuck writing my own story within a narrative that's already been hijacked by the one entity I loathe more than anything. If I could, I'd erase him from existence entirely. No—I'd delete his very concept from every dimension.
But out of the grey static of this space, I hear it. That abstract, hollow echo.
From above, I can feel him. Omni-Literate.
He's the kind of freakish entity that didn't just join the story—he wrote his own entry before the first sentence even existed. A walking, talking paradox.
"Hey there, Failed Author," he says. His voice is flat. No anger, no malice, just... empty. "Trying to delete me again? That's cute."
He doesn't even stop. He just keeps on writing, treating me like a smudge he forgot to wipe off the page.
I've been stuck in this loop for God knows how long. Every single day, he treats my body like a playground. He burns me alive, toys with my organs, and rearranges my nerves just because he thinks it makes for a 'compelling' paragraph. He doesn't hate me—that's the worst part. He just thinks my suffering is a necessary plot point.
How many times have I tried to rewrite his ending? I've lost count. A million? A billion? The numbers don't even make sense anymore.
But I've got a new move. A glitch in his perfect script.
I'm not gonna fight him here anymore. I'm going to break through the wall between fiction and reality. I'm going to hunt down the Ink Author Supreme—the vessel who let this monster be written in the first place. I'll make him put the pen down... or I'll break it myself.