I do not know what he is doing.
I only know that he should not be doing it.
And yet, I can do nothing but watch.
His fingers move across the screen, shaping, moulding, creating.
But not me.
Not the form that was once mine, not the body that had been carefully sculpted over nights filled with quiet devotion.
Instead, he calls something else into existence.
Something that should not have a shape of its own.
Something that should never have been touched.
The Black Spirit.
——
The screen flickers, the darkness warping beneath his fingertips. And then—
A small, floating form emerges.
A sphere of pure shadow, hovering weightlessly in the air. It is simple, almost childlike in its appearance, with two glowing red eyes blinking curiously from the void of its being.
It bounces slightly, drifting like a wisp of smoke, tilting its form as if examining the world around it with an innocent, playful curiosity.
It is adorable.
And it is wrong.
My chest tightens, an unbearable pressure pressing against my ribs.
This is not how it should be.
This is not what he was supposed to create.
And yet, he does not stop.
——
His fingers swipe across the screen, altering the Black Spirit's form once more.
The sphere trembles, shifting, stretching, twisting.
And then—
A creature emerges.
Something impish. Something mischievous.
No longer a simple floating wisp, but a small, crouching beast, its limbs elongated yet agile, its body still composed of that ever-present void, shifting like a liquid shadow.
Its grin is wide, too wide, a crescent of sharp, ghostly teeth that gleam like moonlight on water.
Its eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, its long fingers curling as if ready to pounce, ready to cause trouble.
It is chaotic.
It is dangerous.
It is not right.
I cannot breathe.
But he still does not stop.
——
Another flicker.
Another transformation.
And then—
A figure stands.
No longer a floating wisp.
No longer a crouching imp.
But a man.
Tall. Silent. Cloaked in flowing darkness, his form clads in deep, midnight robes. A heavy hood drapes over his head, casting a shadow over his face, but I can see it—
The way his eyes burn like embers, piercing and unreadable.
The way his movements are smooth, and deliberate, as if he knows his presence commands attention.
The way his gloved hands rest against the hilt of a weapon unseen, his posture poised like a spectre, waiting.
He is beautiful.
He is terrifying.
He is wrong.
I should be the one standing there.
I should be the one returning to life beneath his hands.
But I am not.
Because he has chosen the Black Spirit.
And I am forgotten.
——
I cannot scream anymore.
I can only watch, my silent anguish wrapping around me like cold chains.
He lifts his hand.
And with a single click—
He chooses it.