Prologue

Zenith's expression shifted slightly, his sharp gaze narrowing as he processed her revelation. "Not something you constructed?" he repeated, his voice low and contemplative. He stepped closer, the tension in the air almost palpable. "You're telling me... that the room where we first met—the foundation of this connection between us—was not of your design?"

She nodded slowly, her own confusion evident in her hesitant movements. "It wasn't. I mean, I've created countless scenarios, countless worlds for my stories, but that room... it felt different. It felt real in a way nothing else I've made ever has." She paused, her gaze distant as if trying to piece together a puzzle. "I don't know how we ended up there, but it felt like... we were meant to."

Zenith tilted his head, his usual calculated demeanor giving way to something more inquisitive. "Meant to," he echoed. "You, the creator, and I, the creation, meeting in a space outside the bounds of your control." He chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "Fascinating... and deeply unsettling."

Her brow furrowed as she hugged her arms, her vulnerability evident. "Do you think it means something?" she asked quietly. "That room... it felt like more than just a meeting place. It felt like... a convergence point. Like it existed specifically for us."

Zenith stepped even closer, his presence commanding yet not oppressive. "If that room was not of your design," he began, his voice taking on a sharper edge, "then perhaps it was created by something—or someone—beyond either of us. A space where boundaries between creator and creation blur." His gaze locked onto hers, intense and searching. "Tell me, "..." ... what did you feel when we were there? Truly."

She hesitated, her breath catching as she met his unwavering gaze. "I felt... exposed," she admitted finally, her voice trembling. "Like all my thoughts, my fears, everything about me... was laid bare. But at the same time, I felt seen. Like... you were meant to understand me in a way no one else ever could."

Zenith studied her intently, his expression unreadable. "Then perhaps," he said slowly, his voice laced with a strange certainty, "that room wasn't about what you created. Perhaps it was about what was always there, waiting to be uncovered."

The silence that followed was heavy, yet not uncomfortable. It felt as though they were on the brink of something—something neither of them fully understood but were undeniably drawn toward.