Leo stared at the screen.
The white prompt pulsed faintly on his laptop:
Do you wish to rewrite your story?
[YES] [NO]
He hadn't touched the keyboard in minutes. Maybe more. His hand hovered near the touchpad, frozen. The apartment around him was quiet except for the hum of his laptop's fan.
He glanced at the time—12:41 a.m.
The cursor blinked. Waiting.
He stood up and started pacing.
Back and forth across the studio apartment, between the bed and his desk. Each step felt heavier than it should. His breath fogged faintly near the window, though the heater was on. He rubbed his arms, stared at the screen again.
"This is some prank," he muttered. "Some weird program. Malware maybe."
Still, something about it wouldn't let go.
He walked into the bathroom. Ran water over his hands. Looked at himself in the mirror. Same dark circles. Same tired eyes. Same person who had been waiting for something—anything—to change.
He returned to the desk.
The screen hadn't shifted. Same message. Same soft white glow.
He hesitated.
Then slowly, deliberately, he moved the cursor and clicked [YES].
At first, nothing happened.
No noise. No glitch. Just the screen—still white.
He waited a few seconds, about to laugh at himself, when the cursor suddenly stopped blinking.
Then the apartment dimmed gradually, like the lights were fading on their own. The bulb above flickered once. The refrigerator stopped humming. Even the digital clock on his microwave froze—1:00 a.m., unmoving.
He looked around, confused. Then stepped back from the desk.
The floor felt… quiet. Not just silent—unnaturally still.
He turned to the window and caught his reflection in the glass. Only it wasn't moving the way he was. He tilted his head. The reflection delayed, then snapped into sync. Then it froze again.
Behind the reflection, something white began to leak through, just a faint shimmer at first, like fog creeping up from nowhere.
Leo spun back toward the laptop.
The screen was no longer just white, it had depth. It rippled, smooth and slow, like fluid glass. Thin strands of pale light began sliding down the screen's frame. They spilled over the edges, curling down the desk, spreading across the floor like smoke that couldn't decide whether it wanted to float or crawl.
He stepped back again.
"This has to be a dream," he said, trying to force belief into the words. "A lucid dream. Or a hallucination."
But his heartbeat was too clear in his chest. His hands were cold, shaking. The glow spread to his shoes, around his ankles.
The air felt heavier.
Leo looked around once more. Everything was disappearing without leaving. The shapes remained, but the substance behind them… wasn't there anymore.
He turned to run but the floor gave way beneath him.
Not suddenly. Not like falling through ice. More like the world had simply stopped trying to hold him in place.
He was standing. Or floating. Or somewhere in between.
Everything around him was pale. Not white. Just empty. No walls. No ceiling. No up or down. The space was colorless, weightless, silent.
He looked down. No floor.
No shadow either.
But he wasn't falling. Not yet.
Then he heard it.
"You're later than most."
Leo turned sharply toward the voice.
It came from something a few paces away—a creature, fox-like in shape, but standing upright. Smaller than a person. Covered in short, ember-hued fur that shimmered faintly like hot ash. Its long tails glowed at the tips, and its eyes were gold—calm, clear, too intelligent.
Leo's voice cracked. "Where am I?"
The creature blinked. "Between."
"Between what?"
"Your last sentence and your first line."
Leo looked around again. Nothing had changed. There was still nothing to stand on, yet he wasn't moving. He touched his chest. Felt a heartbeat—but faint, like it was on loan.
"I don't understand."
"You clicked yes," the creature said. "This is the result."
Leo shook his head. "I didn't agree to this. I didn't sign anything. I thought—"
"All stories begin without full consent."
It said it casually, like it was obvious.
Leo took a few steps back. His shoes made no sound. "I want to go back."
"There is no back."
"There has to be."
"Back is where the story ended."
Something shifted in the space—not visually, but in feeling. Like the silence was moving. Like something had turned a page.
Leo folded his arms tightly. "I didn't ask to be in a story."
"That's why you were chosen."
"I'm not special," he muttered. "I'm not a hero."
"Not yet," the creature said.
Then, lines began to appear in the air. Not typed. Not displayed. They just… surfaced, like thoughts being remembered.
NARRATIVE CORE: LOCATED
STATUS: DORMANT
DESIGNATION: MYTHBORN
THREAD: UNWRITTEN
ALIGNMENT: UNDECLARED
FACTION: NONE
Leo stared at them. The letters floated briefly, flickered, and faded.
"What's a Narrative Core?"
"The wound you survived," the creature said.
Leo frowned. "What?"
"The part of you the world didn't fix. The shape of your truth."
"And Mythborn?"
"Those brought from beyond the Story. Not to play a role. To create one."
Leo's throat was dry. "So I'm supposed to… what? Be important?"
"No," it said plainly. "You're supposed to be dangerous."
Leo went quiet.
The creature's tails swayed behind it. "You asked to rewrite your story. That doesn't mean escape. It means authorship."
Leo's head felt heavy. His body light. "I'm not ready for this."
"Exactly," the creature replied. "That's how it always starts."
Then the space changed.
A thin crack appeared in the air behind him—just a line, glowing faintly. Then another. Like spiderweb fractures spreading across invisible glass.
"What's happening?"
"The page is turning."
"No. Wait. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do—"
"You write," the creature said.
"I can't."
The creature's eyes didn't blink. "Then be written."
The cracks split further.
The world folded inward, not like paper, but like meaning collapsing.
Leo fell.
Not into blackness. Into pieces.
Shattered phrases. Half-formed scenes. Distant voices whispering over each other—arguing about how his story should end.
He saw fragments:
A manuscript burning.
A boy crying ink.
A mirror that didn't follow his movements.
A throne made of books, empty and waiting.
A blank page with no edge.
Voices followed him down:
"Sir Failure."
"He never finished."
"Just another discarded draft."
"Watch how he bleeds."
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
Just a final whisper, deep and deliberate, not from outside him, but from within:
"Let the first line be written."