Stealing the Pen
Ezra stood amid the storm of ink and unraveling reality, his breath steady despite the weight pressing down on him.
The world had tried to erase him.
It had failed.
Now, the silence that followed wasn't just empty—it was waiting.
The ink-cloaked figure still knelt, hands trembling. The thing beyond the cracks was gone.
But Ezra knew better.
It wasn't over.
Because the moment he had forced himself into existence , the story had changed.
And when a story changes, something— someone —always writes back.
The question was—
Who?
Ezra glanced down at the ink-stained air, the floating words still pulsing with power.
He had stolen something. Not just a title, not just a role.
Authority.
And yet, the world still hadn't fully collapsed.
Which meant…
Someone else was holding the pen, too.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. I get it." His voice echoed through the broken library, calm but laced with something new.
Confidence.
Control.
"You don't like what I did, but you can't undo it. So now, we're at a standstill."
The ink shivered.
Then, for the first time since he arrived in this cursed world—
Something wrote back.
A single line appeared in the air, written in ink that wasn't his.
"Then let us see whose story lasts longer."
Ezra's eyes narrowed.
A challenge.
A declaration.
And worse— a writer on the other side.
"Well," he muttered, smirking despite the tension curling in his chest. "That just makes things interesting."
Because this wasn't just about survival anymore.
It wasn't just about rewriting himself into the story.
This was a war of narratives.
And Ezra Kane was about to find out if he was the protagonist—
Or just a footnote in someone else's legend.
Ezra's smirk didn't last.
The ink in the air twisted , forming more words.
Not his.
Not the world's.
Someone else was writing now.
"You are an intruder in a story not your own."
The moment the words settled, the weight around him shifted.
Reality itself stirred.
The broken library—its torn pages, collapsed shelves, and shattered floors— reversed.
Like time itself was being rewritten.
Ezra barely had time to react before the ink coiled around him.
Not attacking.
Binding.
Like chains made of meaning, locking him into a role he didn't agree to.
His fingers twitched. The ink in his veins burned.
No.
He refused.
This wasn't their story anymore.
Ezra inhaled sharply.
And he wrote.
"This is my story now."
The chains cracked.
The weight shuddered.
But the opposing force wasn't done.
More words rushed in.
"A character cannot decide the story. Only the author can."
Ezra gritted his teeth.
He could feel the unseen presence behind those words.
Not just a force. Not just a rule of the world.
A writer.
Someone— something —was actively writing against him.
Testing him. Challenging him.
Fine.
If they wanted a battle, then he'd give them one.
Ezra's smirk returned, sharper this time.
"Then I'll just have to become the author."
The ink around him snapped.
The weight of reality broke.
And for the first time—
Ezra wasn't just rewriting himself.
He was challenging the hand that held the pen.
The war of narratives had begun.
And he wasn't planning to lose.
Ezra had faced death.
He had faced horrors lurking beyond the cracks of reality.
He had even faced the suffocating weight of a world that refused to acknowledge him.
But this?
This was different.
This was a battle of wills.
A war fought not with swords or sorcery, but with words.
And whoever controlled the ink controlled reality itself.
The opposing words hovered in the air, their meaning pressing down like an invisible hand.
"A character cannot decide the story. Only the author can."
A rule.
A declaration.
A warning.
Ezra exhaled, his smirk never fading.
"Then I'll just have to become the author."
The moment his words formed , the world shuddered.
The opposing ink writhed , trying to overwrite him.
But Ezra wasn't just resisting.
He was writing back.
His fingers moved.
Ink bled into the air, forming letters that defied the will pushing against him.
"A character can take the pen. A character can write their own fate."
The weight lurched.
The ink-chains trying to bind him cracked and splintered.
And for the first time, Ezra felt something give way.
The unseen author—the one who had been writing against him— hesitated.
He could feel it.
A moment of uncertainty.
Like they had never considered that a character could fight back like this.
Ezra grinned.
Good.
Then he'd push further.
His next words came sharp, precise, absolute.
"The pen does not belong to one hand alone."
The unseen force recoiled.
The words hovering in the air unraveled.
Ezra felt it.
A shift in power. A crack in the authority that had been controlling the story until now.
He wasn't just rewriting himself anymore.
He was taking the pen.
And the moment he did—
The world changed.
The library's ruins froze. The floating pages stopped shifting.
Everything— everything —paused.
Like the story itself was waiting.
Holding its breath.
Ezra's fingers tingled. The ink in his veins hummed.
He wasn't just a character anymore.
He wasn't just a mistake in the narrative.
He was a writer now.
And that meant—
Whoever had been writing against him?
They weren't untouchable anymore.
Ezra exhaled, flexing his fingers.
"Alright," he muttered to the unseen presence. "Your move."
The ink shivered.
And then, for the first time, the unseen writer responded with a voice.
"So be it."
The war of narratives had truly begun.
And Ezra was ready to write his victory.
Ezra's grip tightened.
The ink in his veins throbbed , resonating with the floating letters in the air.
For the first time, the unseen writer had responded.
Not with just words.
But with a voice.
"So be it."
The weight of those words pressed against him, heavy and absolute, like a thousand invisible hands trying to push him back into his assigned place.
But Ezra?
He had already left the script.
And he wasn't going back.
The moment that voice spoke, the air rippled —
And then, the world wrote back.
Ink spilled across the sky, forming words that pulsed with sheer, undeniable power.
Not a question.
Not a declaration.
A command.
"Erase."
The air collapsed inward.
Reality itself shuddered as the weight of that single word tried to wipe Ezra away.
His breath caught. His limbs locked.
Every fiber of his being screamed as the ink closed in, trying to smother him, overwrite him, undo his very existence.
The world was correcting the mistake.
The "character" had overstepped.
And now, the unseen writer was trying to erase him.
Ezra's vision blurred. His thoughts fractured.
He could feel his very concept slipping, like he was being pulled back into the void—
No.
No.
He wasn't a mistake.
He wasn't just a character in their story.
He had written himself into existence.
And that meant—
He could write himself out of this.
His fingers twitched.
Through the crushing force, through the suffocating weight, he forced his hand to move.
Ink swirled around him, burning like fire, resisting, fighting—
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
With every ounce of willpower, he wrote.
"I refuse."
The ink exploded.
The crushing force shattered.
And Ezra?
Ezra remained.
Still standing.
Still breathing.
Still here.
The unseen writer's ink wavered.
For the first time, the voice hesitated.
Ezra lifted his head, a slow, wicked grin stretching across his face.
"You think you can just erase me?" His voice was hoarse but steady, filled with something new.
Something dangerous.
Confidence.
Control.
"Too bad," he continued, rolling his shoulders as the ink around him settled into a steady pulse. "Because I just rewrote that little rule of yours."
He stepped forward.
Just one step.
But the entire world shuddered.
Because this wasn't just defiance anymore.
Ezra Kane wasn't just fighting back.
He was challenging the very foundation of the story.
And for the first time—
The unseen writer was the one being pushed back.