Apostrophe

Every sentence has a break. Every world has a secret.



Leo wakes up in a room with no windows, no memories, and a countdown clock ticking toward violence. Then the door opens—and survival becomes the only rule.



Beyond it lies a Tower that stretches endlessly skyward, each floor a new trial, each encounter a lesson written in blood. Monsters wait. So do weapons. But no answers.



Not yet.



Leo isn’t the chosen one. He isn’t even supposed to be here. But something—or someone—put him in the margins of this world’s story, like a forgotten note scribbled between the lines. He’s an anomaly. A break in the pattern. A pause that doesn’t belong.



He’s an apostrophe.



And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.



Because an apostrophe doesn’t just mean something’s missing.

It’s a sign that there’s more.