Ink and Blood

The ink-wrought sky twisted.

The unseen writer, once an untouchable force, now staggered.

Ezra could feel it.

A tremor in the air. A hesitation in the ink.

For the first time, his opponent— the one who had been writing his fate —was bleeding.

Not literally.

But in the only way that mattered.

Their authority had cracked.

Ezra took another step forward, feeling the ink bend around him instead of trying to erase him.

His words had weight now.

His defiance had teeth.

And if this so-called "writer" thought he'd just sit back and be erased—

They had made a very, very stupid mistake.

"What's wrong?" Ezra's voice was light, almost amused, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable. "Never had a character fight back before?"

The ink seethed.

For a moment, there was no response.

Then, the unseen presence wrote.

Words appeared in the sky, sharper than blades.

"You are still bound by the rules."

Ezra tilted his head.

And then, just to be an asshole , he grinned.

"Oh?" His fingers twitched, and new words bloomed beside theirs.

"Then why am I still here?"

The air shook.

The unseen writer's ink fractured.

Ezra chuckled under his breath. "Let me guess—you don't have an answer for that, do you?"

A pause.

Then, another line appeared, the ink sluggish, hesitant.

"You cannot win."

Ezra exhaled.

Not in frustration.

In amusement.

Because that?

That wasn't a statement.

That was a hope.

And hope, Ezra had learned, was a fragile thing.

He lifted his hand.

Ink surged at his fingertips, his ink, and as he traced his next words into the air, he made sure to write them with finality.

"Then I'll make you lose."

The moment the words formed—

The world screamed.

The battle of ink and will was no longer a test.

It was a war.

And Ezra?

He was just getting started.

The world shuddered.

Not just in resistance— in pain.

Ezra knew it the moment his words landed.

The unseen writer—the thing that had been shaping this reality—had finally felt it.

A wound.

A real, tangible wound.

And that meant they weren't untouchable anymore.

The ink-wrought sky twisted , letters unraveling in an attempt to rewrite the damage.

But Ezra had already seen through the lie.

This wasn't an absolute force.

This wasn't some omnipotent deity.

This was just another player.

A writer who had held the pen for a long, long time—

And was only now realizing that someone else could steal it.

Ezra exhaled, rolling his shoulders. His ink—his words —were steady now, pulsing with a presence that had once been foreign.

Authority.

"That one hurt, didn't it?" His voice was light, but the glint in his eye was anything but. "Guess I should've warned you—I don't believe in happy endings."

The ink around him twisted.

The unseen writer responded, their words jagged, fractured.

"You are a mistake."

Ezra raised a brow. "Sure. But you're the one bleeding."

Silence.

Then—

"You do not understand what you are doing."

Ezra's smirk didn't fade.

"Oh, I understand perfectly." His fingers twitched, and new ink unraveled around him. "I was supposed to be erased. But I wasn't."

He took a step forward. The air shook.

"Then I was supposed to follow your script. But I didn't."

Another step.

"And now? Now I'm not just some character anymore." His next words burned as he wrote them into the air.

"Now, I am a writer too."

The ink recoiled.

The unseen presence wavered.

And Ezra?

For the first time since waking in this cursed world—

He felt free.

But freedom?

Freedom had a price.

And now, he was about to find out just how far the other writer was willing to go to take the pen back.

The ink-wrought sky screamed.

Ezra felt it—more than sound, more than movement.

A tearing, a fracture in the very foundation of the world.

And at the center of it?

Him.

The unseen writer's presence lurched , no longer the untouchable force it once was.

They were wounded.

Cornered.

Afraid.

Ezra could taste it in the ink, in the hesitation between each written word.

Good.

He was finally getting to them.

The next response came slower, deliberate, like an animal testing the weight of a trap.

"You are not the first to resist."

Ezra tilted his head. Oh?

So this had happened before?

He flexed his fingers, ink coiling around his wrist like a living thing, waiting for his command.

"Let me guess," he said, his voice casual, almost lazy. "They all lost."

Silence.

Then, the ink tightened.

"Yes."

Ezra grinned.

"So why aren't I gone yet?"

That struck something.

The ink around him shivered.

The unseen writer was realizing the same thing Ezra had known from the moment he took control of his own ink.

This wasn't going like before.

Something was different.

Something was wrong.

And that meant—

Ezra had a chance.

Not just to survive.

To win.

"You're stalling," Ezra said, eyes gleaming. "That's a bad sign, you know. Means you're looking for an answer you don't have."

The ink-wrought world trembled.

The unseen writer's response came sharp, like the edge of a knife.

"You do not understand the consequences of your defiance."

Ezra chuckled, the sound dark, bitter. "You say that like I ever had a choice."

He lifted his hand.

Ink coiled at his fingertips, his ink , no longer bound by their rules.

And then—

He wrote.

Not just words.

A sentence.

"A writer who bleeds can be killed."

The unseen presence lurched.

The weight of reality twisted.

The sky fractured.

And for the first time, Ezra felt something beyond hesitation.

Something beyond fear.

Panic.

The unseen writer had never been written against before.

And now—

They were about to find out what happened when someone did.

Ezra smirked, stepping forward as his ink thickened , becoming sharper, heavier, deadly.

"Your move," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "Or should I start writing your ending for you?"

The ink roared.

And the battle of authors truly began.