Chapter 1: The Paper People and the Girl with Ink Eyes
I followed her through the streets of the Folded City, careful not to step on anything too important.
Which turned out to be… everything.
Paper roads. Paper lanterns. Paper dogs that ran on the street dodging people's feet .
It was like walking through a pop-up book written by someone who had seen the human world once, panicked, and then built it from memory.
"You're walking weird," the girl said, glancing back at me.
"Sorry, I'm trying not to die by crumpling," I replied.
She rolled her ink eyes—literally. I watched the calligraphy in her irises swirl into a new kanji I didn't recognize. Probably meant "idiot."
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We passed by a vendor selling origami snacks that unfolded into meals when lit. A kid nearby was kicking a paper ball back and forth between three clones of himself—one sketched, one detailed, and one still being outlined.
"How does… any of this work?" I asked.
The girl gave me a look. "You really are blank."
"I'm starting to take that personally."
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She sighed, then pointed toward a building made entirely of folded scrolls, like stacked fans glued together.
"Memory is food. Ink is power. Fire is… what makes things real."
I blinked. "Okay. Now say that again, but slower and with more explanation."
She tapped her temple. "People write down experiences. Fold them into offerings. Then burn them. The smoke makes the experience permanent—gives it taste, texture, truth."
"And if it's not burned?"
"Then it's just potential. Like an empty character waiting for a writer."
"…Is everyone here okay with living like a rough draft?"
---
She didn't answer.
Instead, she turned a corner, and I followed into a courtyard where a few Paperkin sat eating lunch.
By "eating," I mean they held burning scrolls under their noses like incense. Each inhalation made their outlines shimmer, like they were getting filled in from the inside out.
One guy exhaled a sigh that turned into a poem on the wall. Another's fingers dripped leftover ink onto his plate, where it curled into tiny birds and flew away.
I stared. "That's… poetic and horrifying."
"They're just topping up. Even paper gets hungry."
She turned to me. "You, though… you're not even creased. No name. No script. You're either freshly made…"
"Or?"
"Or you're not from this world at all."
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I looked down at my arms. They weren't paper, but they weren't skin either. Smooth. Pale. No lines. Just… blank.
"I used to be someone," I said quietly. "I think. I just… can't remember what."
Her eyes softened a little.
Not enough to make me trust her. Just enough to make me curious.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She paused. "You can call me Rin."
"Is that your real name?"
She grinned. "Doesn't matter. It's the name I burned into the world."
---
As we sat in the courtyard, I started to realize something:
This place wasn't just weird. It was delicate. Fractured. Everything felt like it was one bad metaphor away from collapsing.
And me? I didn't belong here.
But I couldn't leave. Not until I found out who wrote me into this mess…
Or why they left my page blank.
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