The night pressed heavy against the village, silent except for the faint drip of water from a cracked gutter. Vey sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. His skin looked normal at first—rough, scarred from training—but the longer he stared, the more… wrong it seemed.
Letters. Tiny letters flickering under his skin, like veins of moving ink.
He clenched his fists and the vision vanished. Or maybe it didn't—maybe it simply hid.
The door creaked.
"Vey."
Rex leaned against the frame, arms crossed. His face was shadowed, unreadable. "You didn't sleep."
"Couldn't." Vey's voice was rough. "Every time I closed my eyes, I heard… typing."
Rex frowned. "Typing?"
"Keys. Like hammers, tapping out words. And when I opened my eyes—" Vey lifted his palm, showing faint black smudges where the letters had been. "This."
Rex pushed himself off the door and sat beside him. "You're scaring yourself into madness."
"Am I?" Vey snapped, more harshly than he intended. "The bell tolled twice. People are repeating sentences like puppets. And you—" He turned, eyes hard. "You didn't notice your scars healing overnight?"
Rex opened his mouth, then closed it. He flexed his hand. The scar across his knuckle was gone.
For the first time, Rex looked shaken.
"…Maybe we're cursed," Rex muttered.
"Not cursed." Vey's voice dropped to a whisper. "Written."
The word hung between them like a blade.
The floor creaked.
Both of them froze.
From the corner of the room, a voice spoke—soft, clipped, as though someone were reading aloud from a page:
"Rex tried to comfort him, but his words fell flat."
Rex's head whipped toward the sound. The corner was empty.
No—not empty.
The wallpaper peeled back in long strips, revealing white beneath. Blank white. A hole in the world.
Vey rose slowly, heart hammering. "Do you see it?"
Rex nodded, face pale. "The wall's… gone."
A faint scratching sound echoed, like a quill dragging across parchment. Then, as if written by an unseen hand, words formed on the blank surface:
"The hero doubts his sanity."
Vey's breath caught. The words glistened black, dripping as though wet. He reached out—Rex grabbed his wrist.
"Don't touch it."
But Vey couldn't stop. His fingers brushed the dripping letters. Cold surged through him. His vision warped—he saw flashes: a man's hand clutching a pen, pages scattered across a desk, ink-stained fingertips. The Author.
Vey staggered back, choking on a gasp. "He's real. He's—he's watching us."
Rex pulled him away. "This isn't possible."
"It doesn't matter if it's possible," Vey hissed. "It's happening."
The words on the wall shifted, erasing themselves. New ones appeared.
"They resist the narrative."
The dripping grew louder, faster, filling the silence with a wet, nauseating rhythm.
Rex grabbed Vey's shoulder. "We need to leave."
"Leave where? This world is—"
The words changed again.
"The friend tries to calm him."
Immediately, Rex's expression slackened. His shoulders dropped. He blinked slowly and said, flatly, "Vey. Breathe. You're imagining this."
Vey's blood ran cold.
"Rex." He shook him. "Don't let it in. Fight it."
For a moment, Rex's eyes glazed—then he squeezed them shut, teeth gritted. "No… no. I won't—" His voice cracked. "I won't be a puppet."
The letters on the wall bled, distorting, until they collapsed into a dark smear. Then silence.
Only the dripping remained.
Hours later, the two sat in silence, back to back, watching the corner.
Neither slept. Neither dared.
Finally, Rex spoke, his voice low, trembling despite his effort to sound strong:
"If you're right… if someone's writing this… what happens when they get tired of us?"
Vey didn't answer. He just stared at his hands, waiting for the letters to come back.
And deep down, he already knew the answer.