The glow of the monitor washed Ethan Cross's cramped apartment in pale blue light. The peeling walls, the cluttered bookshelf, and the empty coffee cups scattered across the desk painted a portrait of a man who hadn't left this room in days. Outside, rain slapped against the window, mixing with the faint hum of a city that never really slept.
But for Ethan, the outside world didn't exist. There was only the screen in front of him, the tablet beneath his hand, and the stylus he gripped like a lifeline.
Stroke by stroke, a figure began to emerge on the canvas. A towering warrior clad in cracked black armor, as if forged from volcanic rock. Red light pulsed from the fissures in its body, molten veins glowing like liquid fire. Half its face was hidden by a jagged mask, but the burning red eyes that glared out from beneath it seemed alive.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, staring at what he'd drawn. His eyes were heavy, but he couldn't look away. Something about the figure unsettled him.
"Damn," he muttered, rubbing at his temple. "Why does it feel like it's… watching me?"
He gave a dry laugh, trying to brush off the thought.
"Get a grip, Eth. It's just pixels. Just a drawing."
But the chill crawling down his spine didn't go away.
At twenty-five, Ethan knew he was at a crossroads. Once, he'd dreamed of becoming a renowned artist, creating characters for blockbuster games and animated films. He still remembered sitting cross-legged on the living room floor as a seven-year-old, clutching a dull pencil and a scrap of paper. Back then, the world felt endless, and he believed that if he drew a dragon, it really could fly. His mother used to smile and tell him, "Ethan, your hands hold magic."
Those words had stayed with him. But the magic had faded. Reality was cruel. Now he was just another struggling freelancer, working until dawn for clients who wanted cheap fanart. Month after month, he scraped by, wondering if all his childhood dreams had been nothing but foolish illusions.
The rain outside thickened, lightning flashing across the window. The monitor flickered, its glow faltering.
"Don't you dare die on me now," Ethan muttered, jabbing at his tablet.
But instead of freezing, the screen glitched. His drawing fragmented, lines shattering into static. And then—
Light.
A burst so bright it seared his vision, exploding out of the monitor. Ethan screamed, throwing his hands over his face, but the light only spread wider, swallowing his desk, his chair, his body, his room—everything.
"What the—"
He never finished. His body was yanked forward, sucked into the brilliance.
Darkness. Silence.
Ethan felt himself suspended in nothingness, weightless, falling through an endless void. His chest tightened, panic clawing at him. He tried to scream, but no sound came. His mind reeled, flashing back to that boy on the floor with a pencil and paper, smiling because he believed his drawings had life. And here, in this emptiness, that old belief felt terrifyingly real.
Then—another explosion of light.
Ethan crashed to the ground with a bone-rattling thud. The air was knocked from his lungs. He coughed, gasping as damp grass clung to his palms and the earthy scent of wet soil filled his nostrils. The chill of the night bit into his skin, so unlike the stale air of his apartment.
He groaned, forcing himself upright. His vision swam, but slowly sharpened.
A forest.
Trees towered around him, their trunks glistening faintly as if coated in glass. Leaves shimmered, reflecting the silver glow of the moon. The air was intoxicatingly crisp, as if he was breathing for the first time.
Ethan tilted his head back—and froze.
Two moons.
They hung side by side in the sky, massive and pale, like a pair of unblinking eyes.
"Oh, hell…" His voice cracked. "This—this isn't real. This has to be a dream."
He pinched his arm. Hard. The sting made him hiss.
"…shit. It's real."
His trembling hand tightened around something. His stylus. Except now, its tip glowed faintly, leaving trails of light with every movement.
Heart hammering, Ethan lifted it and drew in the air. A glowing line hung there, hovering, refusing to vanish. His breath caught. He drew another, then another. Slowly, a crude dagger took shape.
The last stroke pulsed—then solidified. Something clattered into his palm with the weight of steel.
A dagger. Cold. Heavy. Real.
Ethan's whole body shook.
"Anything I draw… it becomes real?" he whispered, voice breaking between awe and dread.
His heart raced. Questions screamed in his skull, panic and exhilaration colliding. But before he could think further—
THOOM.
A metallic boom echoed through the trees.
Ethan's head snapped up. From the shadows, something massive approached. The earth trembled faintly beneath its steps. Branches snapped. Leaves scattered.
And then he saw it.
A towering figure emerged, cloaked in shadow. Black, cracked armor seeping with molten veins. A jagged half-mask. Burning red eyes.
Ethan's blood turned to ice.
No mistake. He knew this creature.
It was the warrior he had just drawn.
And now it lived.
And it was walking toward him.
"N-no…" His voice was a rasp, his throat dry. The dagger in his hand felt pathetic, a child's toy compared to the monstrosity he had birthed.
The warrior's steps thudded closer. Each one reverberated through the ground. Its breath hissed, mingling with the crackle of magma. Those glowing eyes locked onto him—eyes Ethan had never meant to give consciousness.
He stumbled back. "Okay, Eth… think. If you can make a dagger, you can make something better. Focus!"
His hand trembled as he raised the stylus. Desperation fueled his strokes as he sketched frantically in the air. The lines shook, broken, sloppy. He aimed for something simple—a shield.
But the warrior was already raising its massive sword, serrated and glowing red.
"Come on, come on, COME ON!" Ethan screamed at himself.
The final stroke snapped into place—just as the sword came crashing down.
CRASH!
The blow slammed into the shield of light. Ethan was hurled backward, the shield splintering in his hands, but it held long enough to stop the first strike. He gasped, lungs burning, sweat streaming down his face. His wide eyes stared at the fading fragments of light.
"Holy sh*t…" he whispered, trembling. "I actually did it."
But the warrior didn't stop. It lifted the blade again, eyes flaring brighter, steps relentless.
Ethan clutched the glowing stylus as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
And in that instant, he knew: his art could kill—or it could save him.