The pen trembled between Lena's fingers, its tip slick with her own blood.
The Witness stood still, that unnatural grin stretched too wide, like dry parchment cracking at the edges. Mirrors surrounded them, each one capturing countless fractured versions of this moment—Lena reaching, the book waiting, the world holding its breath.
Then—
A whisper.
Not from the Witness.
From the book.
"Sign, and it all stops."
Her hand shook.
the page—
And the room screamed.
---
THE FIRST CUT
As soon as her blood hit the paper, every mirror shattered.
Not outward—
Inward.
Glass imploded with a sharp hiss, slicing through the air like blades, embedding into walls, floor—her skin.
But there was no pain.
Only a creeping cold that numbed everything, as black ink curled from the cuts, stitching her back together in jagged cursive scars.
The Witness let out a breath, rank with the scent of burnt parchment.
"Good."
Its hand landed over hers—
And pushed.
The pen moved on its own, dragging across the page, carving one slow, shaking letter:
L
Blood poured out—far too much, pooling thick and dark across the page like it was alive.
It spelled out words she hadn't written:
"The Last Keeper is the First Prison."
The book groaned, its spine cracking like bones giving way.
And something inside began to stir.
---
THE SHADOW GOD'S VOICE
The air froze.
What little light there was flickered and died, swallowed by something huge and starving. It pressed down until her bones trembled.
A voice came from the book, deep and ancient and vast:
"AT LAST."
The Witness melted, dissolving into thick ink that slid back between the book's lines.
Lena tried to pull away—
But the pen wouldn't let go.
It wasn't writing her name anymore.
It was erasing her.
Letters tore free from her skin, her memories, her soul, sinking into the paper.
Lena Carter. Age 28. Cause of death: becoming.
The numbness crept higher—up her arms, her throat, her face.
She couldn't move.
Couldn't scream.
Couldn't—
---
MIRA'S HAND
A hand gripped her wrist.
Warm.
Human.
"Not yet."
Mira yanked her back, breaking the pen's hold.
The book howled, pages fluttering like injured wings.
Lena collapsed, gasping, fire flooding through her veins—something new, burning away the numbness.
Mira stood tall, but changed.
Half her body was thin as paper, covered in crawling text.
The other half looked real, eyes fierce and bright.
"It lied," she said. "Signing your name doesn't end the story. It eats it."
She grabbed Lena's face, forcing her eyes to the page.
"See."
The line Lena had started to sign melted away, revealing a different truth:
Not a contract.
A trap.
A feast.
Names layered on top of names, decaying and rotten, each one a Keeper who'd signed before.
At the bottom, barely readable:
Alistair Voss.
Still bleeding.
Still fresh.
---
THE SECOND TRUTH
The room warped.
Lena's vision split, showing her memories she never lived:
– Her grandfather in Prague—not stealing the book, but replacing it with a forgery.
– Mira in the crypt—not discovering the dagger, but planting it.
– Herself, again and again, in dozens of lives, reaching for the pen, failing every time.
Then Mira slapped her hard.
"Focus! The god doesn't want to leave the book. It wants to leave time."
Her palm pressed to Lena's chest.
The fire ignited again, chasing out the cold.
"You're not just the Keeper. You're the counterweight. The balance. The end."
The book shrieked, its pages ripping free and circling them in a storm of words.
Mira's voice pierced the chaos:
"The only way to kill a story is to finish it."
Then she pushed Lena into the book's open mouth.
---
THE FLESH LIBRARY (REBORN)
Darkness.
Then—
Light.
She stood in the archive, but it had changed.
The shelves weren't made of bone anymore.
They were hers.
Her ribs, opened wide, lined with books made of her memories.
The god rose before her—not shadow now, but flesh.
Thick.
Grinning.
"You finally understand," it said. "This was never a prison. It was a cocoon."
It opened its arms, and the walls peeled back.
Behind them—
Nothing.
Just endless, hungry dark.
"And now," it whispered, "I hatch."
It stepped closer.
Lena moved.
---
THE LAST PAGE
She didn't run.
She didn't fight.
She reached inside herself—
And tore.
She screamed as her fingers found something solid behind her ribs.
Not her heart.
A page.
The one Mira gave her.
The one that said:
"REMEMBER."
The god froze.
"No."
Lena smiled.
And shoved the page into its mouth.
---
THE UNWRITING
It hit instantly.
The god gagged, its body breaking apart, thick ink spilling out with every word.
The page inside it burned, the words lashing through its flesh from within:
"ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WAS A GIRL WHO BECAME A BOOK."
It screamed, clawing at itself as it folded inward, crumpling like scorched paper.
The archive collapsed.
Shelves splintered.
Books burst into ash.
Lena hit the ground, fire devouring her from inside—
And she let it.
---
THE AFTERMATH
Silence.
Then—
A breath.
Lena opened her eyes (had she closed them?)
She was back in the Rare Texts Room.
The book sat before her.
Closed.
Still.
No.
Not still.
Dead.
Its cover was cracked.
The pages yellowed, empty, brittle.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She turned.
Mira stood there—whole again. But fading, her outline already soft and smudged.
"It's done," she whispered.
She placed something in Lena's hand.
A blackened key.
"For when you're ready to open it again."
Before Lena could reply, Mira disappeared.
Only her smile lingered.
---
THE LAST WHISPER
Lena sat there a long time.
The key pulsed in her palm, heat searing her skin.
Then—
A sound.
A faint, dry rustle.
The book's cover shifted.
Just once.
A whisper slipped out:
"Keeper..."
Lena stood.
She didn't look back.
But as she walked away, her reflection in the glass winked.
And the book—
The book laughed.
---