Ethan had always walked the path of mediocrity—never the best, never the worst. He wasn't outstanding in anything, but he wasn't particularly failing either. He had always felt like an invisible cog in the grand machinery of life, drifting between the edges of success and failure. But that evening, as he walked home through the quiet streets of Riverstone, something unseen seemed to beckon him.
The world outside was cold, the air biting with the first hints of autumn, but Ethan barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed by his studies, the coming exams, and the feeling that he was stuck. He walked the same path he had a thousand times before, but tonight was different. There was something in the air that felt… charged.
That's when he noticed the pawn shop. It was hidden between two buildings, almost out of place in the otherwise modern streets. Its flickering neon sign—Grayson's Pawn & Collectibles—was barely visible, casting an eerie glow. The door was slightly ajar. As if calling him, inviting him inside.
Ethan hesitated. He wasn't one for superstitions, but there was something about that shop—something old, like it had been waiting for him. He pushed the door open.
The moment he stepped inside, the shop's musty scent hit him—like dust, old leather, and long-forgotten things. The air was thick with time. The shop was packed with random objects: tarnished silverware, tarnished paintings, cracked vases, and stacks of books. But something about the far corner of the room caught his attention.
There, resting alone on a high shelf, was a book: black, worn, its leather cover smooth yet weathered. The Marionette's Fate.
As Ethan reached for it, he felt a strange shiver run through his spine. The moment his fingers brushed against the cover, he felt a jolt, as if the book were alive. He opened it, only to find the pages blank, save for a single line written in flowing, elegant script:
"Write a name. Write their fate. But beware—the hand that writes shall bear the burden of change."
Ethan laughed softly to himself. It was a joke—a cheap novelty. But still, the sensation lingered in his fingertips. Something unseen stirred in him, pulling him deeper into the shop. He bought the book, a strange feeling of expectation building within him