Chapter 18: Rewrite or Rouge

Bleed-Space Theater, Post-Showdown

Two of me stood on stage. One perfect. One broken. The audience held its breath—because only one Jeremy Blake would walk away.

I opened my eyes to black velvet, dim light, and the faint scent of champagne on spilt stage blood.

We were back inside that surreal bleed-space theater—the one that flickered like half-cut film reels.

And center stage, under a single spotlight, stood both of me: the fractured Jeremy and the Perfect Jeremy, like twin statues carved from the same clay.

Glyph flared in my mind, pixelated like a broken ad banner.

[Alert: Memory core fragmentation at 74%. Voice integrity unstable. Power bleed likely.]

My Perfect self—clean, unscarred, eyes steady as still water—stepped forward.

"Jeremy," he said in the same voice, but mine. "You're failing your cue."

The audience—thousands more shadowed faces—leaned in. No applause. No gasps. Just quiet expectation.

The implicated thing in Aurek's body was gone. Its voice was a memory on loop. But we were still mid-narrative.

Perfect Jeremy reached out, hand extended.

"Ready for the final take?"

I swallowed.

I had two choices: fight him and wrestle control—or let him replace me.

On the edge of that spotlight, I felt the world sway.

[Glyph: Real response or reboot?]

...…..

I raised my hand.

"Wait—who are you?"

He smiled. Not full, not fierce. Just precise.

"I'm you," he said. "The version that follows the script."

A pause. The audience leaned closer again.

Sounds of a storm flickered—like a projector bulb struggling against heat.

[Glyph: That's the world glitching. We're close to a rewrite boundary.]

Perfect Jeremy didn't flinch.

"And?" he asked.

I looked him in the eyes. "I'm the one who remembers."

"And that's the problem," he said. "You remember you died. So now you question everything."

[Glyph: He's summarizing your existential crisis like a trailer voiceover.]

I took a step forward—into the twin.

"Maybe questioning is the only thing right."

He tilted his head. The edges of his form glitched—flickers of memory reel playing under his skin.

[So… kill the actor or kill the role?]

.....Death Scene Revisited…

My breath caught.

I wasn't on set. I was ten years old again.

My agent—silver hair, sharp smile—whispered:

"You can do it, kid."

Stage lights. A slanted set piece.

I stepped forward.

A spotlight hit.

My knee buckled.

Spine cracked.

Dark.

Then the camera captured my last gasp.

"Stop running from death. Face it. Own it."

Those were her words.

My agent.

This time, it hit me in full—my death was her direction. Literal. Scripted.

My eyes blurred.

[Glyph: Memory core file "Final Take" found. Emotional trigger: agent involvement.]

I turned to Perfect Jeremy again.

"That's why I'm here."

He blinked, like he didn't understand—but he did.

...

Suddenly, the theater doors blasted open.

Queen Ilyra stepped in, dramatically lit.

Her face was fierce, layered with pride and fear.

"Jeremy," she said.

The spotlight widened to include her.

"This is the final act. Perform your truth—or the world ends."

Perfect Jeremy looked at her.

A flicker crossed his perfect face.

I thought I saw doubt.

[He's unstable if abandoned.]

I swallowed.

"You gave me the choice, Queen," I said, voice quieter than before. "But the story… belongs to us."

She blinked. Pause.

Then a nod.

The audience stirred.

Lights flickered.

They wanted the show.

...….

Perfect Jeremy stepped forward again.

"Finish. Do it properly."

I squared up.

"How?"

"Audience wants clarity."

I tilted my head.

So I started.

Me: "I died because she said 'Stop running.' She killed me for art."

The words rang.

I could feel the world jolt.

Perfect Jeremy staggered.

He blinked.

[Power bleed: Yours, not his.]

I continued.

Me: "They stole my script—my life—and tried to fit me into their mold."

The Queen closed her eyes.

Perfect Jeremy shook his head.

[He's unraveling.]

Me: "I won't be erased again."

I stepped into the spotlight fully.

Me (louder): "I choose me. Not the role."

The world rumbled.

Lights snapped.

Audience faces began to burst into color, tearing the blackness away—many revealed as key characters: Edran the priest, Cassidy, Varin—blessed conspirators. All watching.

Perfect Jeremy melted.

[Memory core isolation successful.]

He looked at me, voice cracking.

"Then… take the final bow."

He bowed.

Then vanished.

...

The theater exploded in light.

The ceiling fractured.

A silent bell tolled.

I staggered back.

Queen Ilyra's voice echoed.

"You did it."

The audience closed in.

But I felt empty.

Lights flickered.

Glyph screamed.

[Global rewrite boundary hit.]

And before I could steady myself—

Every face in the room broke like a mirror shattered by a thrown coin.

Time stuttered.

Sound fractured.

And I collapsed—my lungs full of spotlight dust.

...

The air snapped back—like someone hit "Play," then "Rewind," then "Play" again too fast—and suddenly I was back in the real world.

I staggered to my feet. Stage dust clung to my robes. The holy shrine around us was still there—though cracked and trembling, like uncertain faith.

Queen Ilyra was beside me. Close. Too close.

She brushed a lock of hair from my forehead.

"You did more than break him," she whispered. "You unmade him."

I swallowed hard. My voice caught.

"The Audience… the perfect me—it wasn't just a threat. It was a warning. Or a checkmate."

"And you avoided it." Her eyes shone. But I felt emptiness—not relief.

Behind us, the congregation swayed. Edran blinked, as though just realizing he was kneeling. Varin whispered to Cassidy, panic flashing across their faces.

The illusion was done.

The truth remained.

We're all walking lies.

...…

Glyph buzzed, frantic.

[Warning: Scene bleed over. Reality distortion at 72%. Glamour lattice destabilizing.]

I closed my eyes. Focused on the world.

Air drifted.

Candles stabilized.

Shrine tremors ended.

The illusions dissolved.

The architecture healed—marble cracks slowly sealing.

It was like watching a ghost set gently laid to rest.

But inside me…

I felt hollow.

.....

Ilya slid her hand into mine.

"Walk with me."

We left the shrine in silence.

Through the galleries. Down the marble corridors. I felt every echo, every curious eye tracking us.

Finally, she pulled me into her solar—a quiet room overlooking the city.

She closed the door.

"I've never been more terrified of you," she confessed. "Not because you failed—but because you succeeded."

"Did I?"

"Pristine. You rewrote. You reclaimed."

Her words hit like weight.

I hadn't just survived. I'd changed the game.

But at a cost.

"It won't hold," I said. "Something's shifting."

She leaned in.

Her voice was gentle, commanding.

"Then what do you want?"

....

I looked at her.

I saw the kingdom in her eyes.

A crown's ambition.

"And I want to write my own role."

She paused.

Then nodded.

Her expression softened, just a fraction.

"What does that mean?"

I inhaled.

"First—no more control from the shadows. No more scripted miracles."

Her brows furrowed.

"We need faith or chaos."

I took her hand again.

"We'll give them both."

...….

Over the next hours, we drafted new scripts—not illusions, but let truth be the spectacle.

A public confession.

A miracle that would leave scars, not wonder.

A ceremony of memory, not resurrection.

She approved.

And I—once actor, prophet, puppet—felt something I hadn't in iterations:

Ownership.

....

At dawn, the plaza filled again.

Only this time, I stepped up to a simple wooden pulpit—not a golden altar.

Shivering nobles, anxious clergy, hopeful cultists all gathered beneath a sky still shimmering with exploited miracle residue.

They waited for a new act.

I took a deep breath.

"And now," I said, voice low and steady, "the truth."

I pulled out a veiled manuscript.

The crowd leaned in.

"Everything you believe… belongs to the spotlight."

[Meta: Didn't see this coming? Poll: Should the MC reveal the Veilworks contract? Glyph votes hard yes.]

Some gasped. Some looked betrayed. One woman dropped to her knees and wailed.

But the seeds had been sown.

I unrolled the contract. The ink bled upward, forming words no one expected:

'TERMINATION CLAUSE: ERASE ALL WITNESSES.'

[Glyph's final message pulsed in my skull: Well. Fuck.]

END OF THE CHAPTER 18