Vey awoke to the sound of his own heartbeat.
Not in his ears—inside his skull, like a drum. Heavy. Insistent. A pulse that carried the rhythm of something else. Something watching.
Rex was sitting across the room, knees drawn to his chest, eyes open but unseeing. His lips moved slightly, whispering something incomprehensible.
Vey's arm burned where the black stain had spread further overnight. The letters were no longer faint—they writhed beneath his skin, twisting, forming shapes he couldn't quite read.
"Rex?" Vey whispered.
Rex's head jerked toward him. His eyes had dark rings, pupils too large, like he'd been staring at nothing for hours.
"You saw it too," Rex said flatly. "The words. They… they came back."
"They never left," Vey corrected. His voice was low, tremulous. "They're in us now. The mark… it's not just ink. It's… alive."
Rex pressed his palms to his ears. "I don't care if it's alive or screaming or whatever—this is insane. We can't keep pretending. Every second we sit here, it's—" He stopped. His voice dropped to a whisper. "…it's watching."
Vey nodded. He had felt it too, the weight in the air, the subtle tremor in the walls. The flicker of shadows that weren't shadows. The edges of the room… wrong. Not quite right.
Then the room shifted.
A chair wobbled across the floor. Not knocked over, not pushed—but as if it had fallen in memory, like a glitch repeating in space.
Rex froze mid-sentence, mouth open. "Did… did that chair just move?"
Vey's breath caught. "It did."
A whisper followed, curling from the corner of the room, soft and cold:
> "Rex forgets to resist. He relaxes. He smiles."
Rex's face twitched. His lips curled into a grin he didn't intend.
"Rex!" Vey shouted. "Fight it!"
Rex blinked rapidly, shaking his head. "I—" The words faltered. "I don't—"
The grin stretched wider.
Vey lunged, grabbing his friend, shaking him. "Stop smiling! Stop it! Fight it, Rex!"
Rex's eyes darted around. The shadows deepened unnaturally in the corners of the room. The walls seemed to breathe. A low scratching sound like a quill dragged across paper echoed from above.
And then the whisper returned:
> "The hero tries to pull the friend back. He fails."
Rex gasped, hands trembling, his body moving against Vey's grip as if unseen strings pulled at his limbs.
Vey's stomach turned. "You—don't—listen!" he shouted. "It can't control you if you don't—"
The sentence ended in a violent ripple through the room. Books on the shelves flipped open, pages rustling violently, letters curling and smearing. The black stain on Vey's arm burned hotter. His veins throbbed.
> "The friend resists poorly."
Rex collapsed to his knees, shaking, whispering, "I can't… I can't—"
Vey knelt beside him, pressing his hands to his shoulders. "Yes, you can! Listen to me! Remember who you are!"
But the words didn't feel enough. The room seemed to fold slightly, like reality had become paper in someone else's hands. A crease ran along the far wall, jagged and sharp.
And then… something darker.
A shadow fell across the floor. Not from the window, not from the candle. It wasn't Rex's, wasn't Vey's.
It was too precise, too deliberate.
Vey froze.
The whisper came again. Now colder, sharper, slicing through the room like a blade:
> "They notice the shadow. They flinch. They try to run."
The air thickened. The floor beneath them seemed to warp, faint lines appearing like the edges of a page. A metallic scratching, like the sound of a blade dragging along parchment, echoed across the ceiling.
Vey's breath caught. "Rex… do you see that?"
Rex's eyes followed the shadow. His voice trembled. "I… I don't… I can feel it… it's—"
The shadow moved. Not walking, not slithering, but gliding, like an ink stain spreading across the ground. The edges sharpened.
Vey's pulse thundered. He knew what it was.
"The Editor."
Rex gasped. "The… what?"
"Shhh!" Vey pressed a hand to his friend's mouth. "Don't speak! It notices everything you say!"
The shadow paused near the far wall, pulsating slightly, as if breathing. The air vibrated with a subtle hum, like words forming in it, ready to be written.
Vey's arm burned. The letters beneath his skin moved, stretching, twisting. Shapes—words he didn't understand yet—flared briefly and vanished.
"Vey…" Rex whispered. "It's… it's real. The Editor… it's… here."
"Yes," Vey said, voice shaking. "And it's patient. But it's not merciful."
The shadow flickered and shifted. In the corner of his vision, Vey thought he saw the faintest outline of a figure—tall, angular, with no face except a black void. And yet, it was watching them. Waiting.
"They wait. Patience is their weapon. Fear is their ink."
Vey staggered back, hands trembling. "We can't stay here. We have to—"
"The hero plans to flee. He hesitates."
Rex grabbed his arm. "Don't. Don't listen to it! Move! Run if you have to, but—don't let it touch your mind!"
The letters beneath Vey's skin pulsed violently, bright black streaks moving like live words across his veins. A cold pressure wrapped around his chest, making each breath a battle.
Vey clenched his teeth. "We—survive. We hide. We pretend… just like he said."
But the shadow moved again. A subtle shift, almost unnoticeable, but enough. Enough to make the floor ripple like water. Enough to make Vey's stomach drop, to make Rex whimper.
The room itself seemed alive now. Walls tilted, candle flames bent toward the shadow, and the whispering returned—every word not spoken aloud but imprinted directly into their minds:
"Every hesitation, every doubt, every heartbeat—they will be noted."
Rex shivered violently. "Vey… I—"
"The friend falters. The hero struggles to hold him."
Vey bit back a scream. "We don't falter. Not yet. Not until we reach the Spine."
The shadow pulsed again, receding slightly, leaving a chill in the air. But the feeling lingered—omnipresent, unrelenting.
Vey touched his arm again. The letters beneath his skin seemed to breathe, forming shapes that teased understanding. "It's… growing," he whispered.
Rex nodded mutely, terror written across his face. "We're… we're not safe anywhere. Not here. Not there. Nowhere."
Vey's jaw tightened. "Then we prepare. We learn. We survive. Every word it tries to write, we resist. Every moment it watches, we endure. That's all we can do. And when the Spine comes… maybe we have a chance."
The shadow didn't move again, but the air hummed with its presence.
Vey and Rex sat in the flickering candlelight, listening to their own panicked breathing. Every second stretched, long and jagged, as the world warped subtly around them: a vase half-formed, letters dripping from a floorboard, a faint page smell in the air.
And somewhere, far above, the Author wrote.
And somewhere, lurking between the words, the Editor waited.
"The hero and his friend tremble. But they endure. For now."