"My name is Mister End, And who might you be?"
Startled to answer, her jaw shakes and can't avoid staring at the white colored lady beside her. Mister End follows the gaze of hers to Sarah Sinrur.
"Oh my she can see me. Now that's interesting." Her lips stretched into a grin, slow and deliberate, teeth gleaming under the dim light. There was something unsettling in the way her eyes locked onto the girl, unblinking, unwavering.
Across from her, the girl stiffened, breath hitching. Her shoulders tensed, fingers trembling at her sides. Her wide eyes, frozen in place, mirrored the horror creeping up her spine. Yet, she couldn't look away—not from that smile, that eerie, knowing smile that seemed to peel away every layer of safety she had left.
She moved slowly, each step deliberate, as if savoring the moment. The quiet scrape of her heels against the ground was the only sound that filled the space between them.
Reaching Paige's father, she crouched beside him, her fingers stretching forward with an eerie gentleness. The moment her hand made contact, his body trembled. Then, piece by piece, his flesh began to disintegrate, curling into weightless embers that drifted into the air. The glow of decay spread slowly, devouring him bit by bit—his arms, his chest, his face—until nothing remained but the empty space where he once lay.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
"What did you do to my father?!"
Sarah responded, " Your father had a wish, that is to spare your life despite the fact that fate has already applauded an end."
"This scared girl is the one?"
"Yes but the trauma that led to this situation will be a hassle to make you fight him, Mister End."
Sarah gently closes her eyes, deciding what will be the verdict of Paige's mere existence.
"White Court, not guilty, resulting in memory loss and exceeding power." Paige's world faded into darkness, her vision stolen in an instant. Her mind, once filled with familiar faces and moments, became an empty void—memories erased, leaving only fragments she couldn't grasp. Yet, in that emptiness, something else awakened.
Her hands, once hesitant, now moved with effortless precision across the canvas. Scenes she couldn't recall living flowed from her fingertips—detailed, vivid, brimming with emotion. Stories formed in her mind, not as memories, but as something deeper, something raw.
What she had lost in sight and past, she gained in creation. Each stroke of her pen, each brush of color, wove worlds richer than before, pushing her ever closer to perfection—a storyteller not bound by memory, but by pure, untamed imagination.
As a result, she fainted, exceeding her limits of staying awake from all of that, trauma, pressure of Sarah's powers within her, blindness, and memory loss. She is no more than a thrown doll.
*Paige's POV*
Suddenly, something stirred within me—a force, an impulse, an unshakable urge to create. It wasn't just inspiration; it was a transformation. A new persona took shape, unfamiliar yet undeniably mine. I could no longer recall who I once was, nor could I grasp who I was meant to become. There was no past, no future—only purpose.
My hand moved on its own, guided by something beyond thought. A golden sand, shimmering with an otherworldly glow, swirled around my fingers, flowing toward the pen in my grasp. The moment it touched the tip, the energy surged forward, colliding with the stark white canvas before me. The colors bled into existence, twisting, shaping—becoming. And just like that, the unseen took form, reality bending to the will of my creation.
---
She was rushed to the hospital, though only briefly—there was no time for rest, not when the world outside was already crumbling. The others had long since been evacuated to the shelters, leaving behind only those willing to stand against the oncoming storm.
But against a force like Mister End, resistance was near futile.
The battlefield was littered with the fallen, a grim testament to the war waged in the shadows. The Author Police had suffered catastrophic losses—67% of their forces wiped out, their bodies reduced to nameless casualties in a fight that offered no mercy. Survival wasn't just a matter of skill or strength anymore. It was luck. A desperate gamble against an enemy who was never meant to lose.
Their last hope stood alone—a one-man army, the final thread of resistance. He was known as The Narrator, the one who wove reality with mere words. Every tale he told shaped the world, every sentence carved fate itself.
Across from him, Mister End loomed, his presence heavy, suffocating. Yet, he didn't attack—not yet. Instead, a slow grin stretched across his face, sharp and knowing. This was no ordinary battle. This was a clash of power, of will, of the very forces that dictated existence itself.
One would reign supreme. The other would be erased.
And as the first word was spoken, the battle began.