The rain had been falling since morning, a steady whisper that muffled the city into sleep. Streetlights bled into puddles, and Elias walked with his hood up, head down, a worn paperback tucked tightly under one arm.
He didn't mind the weather. The wet made people disappear. Less noise. Less need for words.
The copy of Whispers of the Hollow Realm was a 14th reprint—bent spine, coffee-stained pages, and a torn corner on the last chapter. He already owned two other versions, but this one… this one called to him. Like it remembered something the others forgot.
He stopped outside the old bookstore, looking back at its fogged glass. She'd been there.
That girl.
Just before sunset. Black hair like a shadow dipped in ink, a faded satchel over one shoulder. She'd picked up the book, flipped to the final page, and without looking at him, murmured:
"He never makes it, you know."
Then she walked out. No name. No explanation. Elias hadn't followed her. He didn't follow anyone.
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about it. He never makes it. The hell did that mean? Auren Stride wins. That was the point of the whole damn story.
He crossed the street, stepped over a gutter flooding with paper and leaf rot, and kept walking.
His apartment was as quiet as he was. A one-room box above a boarded-up flower shop, lit by flickering lamplight and the static hum of a dying monitor. Posters of fantasy worlds lined the wall—dragons, fallen kingdoms, swords etched with fire. All make-believe. All safe.
Elias dropped the book on his desk and slid into the chair, peeling off his hoodie.
He opened Whispers of the Hollow Realm—page 417. The Hollow King's throne room. Auren, sword in hand, staring down the creature that had murdered his parents and poisoned his homeland. Elias had read the scene a dozen times.
But this time, the page was blank.
His brow furrowed. He turned back a page, then forward. Still blank.
Then, slowly, the paper began to bleed.
Black ink surfaced like it had been submerged underwater—shaping words he hadn't read before.
"The reader stares. The page stares back. And then, for the first time, the story reaches through."
Elias stood. The lights buzzed, then went out.
A gust of cold burst through the room—the window hadn't opened, but the glass cracked like ice under pressure.
From the book, ink began to pour. Real, physical ink, thick as tar and smelling of old blood and burnt ash.
It climbed the desk leg. It ran across the floor.
And then—
A circle of fireless light ignited beneath his feet, sharp with symbols that matched the ones etched into Auren's sword.
Elias's breath caught. He looked down—and a sigil pulsed from his chest through his shirt, branded into his skin like a story written without consent.
"Who are you?"
The voice didn't come from the book. It came from everywhere.
"Why are you in my world?"
Elias staggered back, clutching the book like it might explode.
But the final line had already been written, glimmering at the bottom of the newly inked page:
I closed the book. But it didn't close me.