Ezra ran.
And for the first time—the distortion didn't immediately follow.
It twitched.
Not physically. Not like something struggling to move.
But like a thought process breaking.
Like it didn't know what to do.
Ezra's fingers clenched around the torn page in his pocket.
He'd done something wrong.
Something not in the script.
And this place—this story—didn't know how to handle it.
His other self exhaled sharply. "Well. That's one way to make the universe have an existential crisis."
Ezra wasn't laughing. He kept moving, his mind racing.
The book had rejected his edits.
But tearing out a page? That was different.
Because now, for the first time since stepping into this nightmare—
He held a piece of the story that didn't belong to him.
A piece that wasn't being rewritten.
A piece that was now outside the book's control.
The distortion twitched again. Then—it adjusted.
The space around it bent violently, shelves snapping out of place, books shuddering in protest.
Ezra's stomach dropped.
It was adapting.
His fingers itched to pull the torn page from his pocket, to read it, to use it—
But something in his gut screamed wait.
He wasn't just running anymore.
He was ahead of the story now.
And that meant—he could set the next move.
A plan clicked in his mind. A gamble.
He turned sharply, ducking between the endless shelves, pushing deeper into the impossible library.
Because if this thing was going to rewrite his fate—
Then he was going to steal its ending first.
Ezra sprinted deeper into the endless library.
The distortion pulsed behind him, twisting the air as it tried to correct itself. Shelves shook, books rattled, the very fabric of this place resisted him.
Because he had broken something fundamental.
And now—it was trying to fix itself.
Ezra didn't slow. Couldn't.
The torn page in his pocket was proof that this place could be changed.
That fate wasn't as unbreakable as it wanted to be.
His other self smirked beside him. "You really don't like playing by the rules, huh?"
Ezra ignored him, mind racing.
He needed another book. A different book.
If his story was already written—then somewhere in this impossible library, so was the ending.
And if he found it first—
He could change everything.
The shelves blurred past him. Titles flickered at the edge of his vision, books shifting like they were alive.
Then—
One stood out.
A thick, black leather tome.
Unmarked. Unlabeled.
But he knew. Knew without a doubt—
This was it.
The book that held the truth.
His ending.
Ezra skidded to a stop, heart hammering. He reached out—
And the distortion shrieked.
Not a sound. Not a voice.
Something deeper.
Like reality itself was screaming in protest.
The shelves collapsed.
Books exploded into nothingness.
The entire library ripped apart.
Because Ezra wasn't just breaking the story anymore.
He was trying to steal it.
And the thing that watched—would not let him.
The library collapsed.
Shelves crumbled into dust, books disintegrating before they hit the ground.
But Ezra didn't stop.
His fingers closed around the black tome—
And the moment he touched it, something shifted.
Not in the world.
In him.
A sharp pulse rattled through his skull, like a thousand voices whispering in reverse. His vision blurred, his breath caught—
And suddenly, he wasn't in the library anymore.
---
The world around him was white.
No walls. No floor. No sky.
Just emptiness.
And in front of him—
A figure.
Not the distortion. Not a being of warped space.
This… was different.
A silhouette cloaked in ink, shifting like it was made of unread words.
And it spoke.
"You shouldn't have taken that."
Ezra exhaled sharply. "Yeah? Well, you shouldn't have written my death sentence."
The figure tilted its head.
And then—
It laughed.
Not in mockery. Not in amusement.
But like someone reading a joke that wasn't meant to be funny.
Then, it raised a hand.
A single page materialized between its fingers—ripped from the book Ezra had just stolen.
And Ezra's breath stilled.
Because at the top of the page—
Two words burned into existence.
"Final Chapter."
Ezra's pulse hammered.
The figure held the page between its fingers, the words burning like fate carved in stone.
"Final Chapter."
He had stolen his own ending.
And now, the story itself was staring him down.
Ezra forced a smirk. "Hate to break it to you, but I don't take spoilers well."
The ink-cloaked figure didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Just watched.
And then, slowly—it turned the page toward him.
Ezra's throat tightened.
Because at the bottom, beneath the swirling, ever-shifting text, was a single, inescapable line.
"Ezra Kane dies."
The words weren't a threat.
They weren't a warning.
They were a fact.
Written. Sealed. Done.
The ink bled deeper into the page, locking it in place.
His fate had already been decided.
The figure's voice was quiet. Final.
"There is no escape."
Ezra's fingers twitched against the black tome.
The weight of that page pressed down on him.
A truth so deeply embedded in this world that it felt inevitable.
But…
His grip tightened.
A slow breath filled his lungs.
And then—
He did the one thing that no character in a story was ever supposed to do.
He reached out—
And ripped the Final Chapter from existence.
The page ripped.
The ink-cloaked figure froze.
And the world shuddered.
Not just the empty white void around Ezra. Not just the library he had left behind.
Something bigger.
Something deeper.
Like the entire fabric of this reality had just been cut open.
The Final Chapter was gone.
Ezra had torn it from existence.
And now—
Nothing knew what came next.
The ink-cloaked figure tilted its head, as if listening to something that was no longer there.
A long, empty pause followed.
Then—
For the first time since appearing, it moved.
A single step.
Slow. Deliberate.
And Ezra's body locked up.
Not from fear.
Not from the weight of what he had done.
But because—
He felt it.
The story wasn't just broken.
It was bleeding.
A cut so deep that reality itself had started to leak.
Ezra exhaled, steadying himself. He had no idea what he had just done.
No plan. No roadmap. No next step.
For the first time since being thrown into this world, he was off the script.
And that meant—
So was everything else.
The ink-cloaked figure took another step forward.
The void around them cracked.
And in the distance, something woke up.