Char's fingers tightened around the edge of the skylight, his breath coming fast and shallow as he watched the slaughter unfold below. His stomach churned, and he had to force himself not to recoil from the scene—the bodies hitting the floor, the wet sound of steel tearing through flesh, the sharp cries that ended too quickly.
It wasn't a fight. It wasn't even an execution.
It was a massacre.
And at the center of it all was him.
Edmund Ardent.
Char felt his throat tighten, sweat slicking his palms against the frame. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
The Syndicate wasn't meant to fall like this, not yet. Edmund's path was supposed to be one of struggle, of slow, incremental victories leading to something greater. He had written him that way—a protagonist who was powerful, but flawed. A fighter who had to grow stronger over time.
But now, as he watched Edmund move like a phantom through the Syndicate's ranks, cutting them down with ease,Char felt his own writing slip through his fingers.
What had happened? How had it all gone so wrong?
His mind raced. Had his arrival in this world truly changed things so drastically? Was Edmund always meant to be this strong, this terrifying? Or had Char's presence—his existence—somehow altered the balance of everything?
Edmund wasn't even trying. That was the worst part. He wasn't struggling, wasn't pushing himself. He was simply killing, moving with an ease and grace that shouldn't have been possible this early in the story.
The knife flashed in the dim light, and Char winced as another man crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath his twitching limbs.
"Shit," Tess breathed beside him, her voice a low whisper. He could barely hear her over the screams and the clash of steel, but he could tell—even she was shaken. And Tess didn't shake easily.
She didn't look away, though. Tess was the kind of person who met carnage with narrowed eyes and a sharpened mind. But even she couldn't hide the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers twitched slightly where they gripped the hilt of her blade.
She's trying to assess him, Char realized.
Tess didn't know who Edmund was. None of them did.
But I do.
Char swallowed, heart hammering against his ribs. He had to say something. He had to warn her, to warn all of them.
"That's him," he whispered, barely able to form the words. His throat was tight, his chest constricted with something between fear and disbelief. "That's the guy who chased me."
Tess didn't react right away. Her gaze was still locked on the scene below, where Edmund had just twisted around another attacker, driving his knife up beneath the man's chin. The Syndicate enforcer convulsed once, then went limp. Edmund let him slide off the blade like he was nothing.
Tess's lips pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, she turned to Char, her expression unreadable. "The guy who nearly caught you?"
Char nodded. "Yeah." His voice sounded distant to his own ears. "That's him."
Tess exhaled sharply through her nose, turning back to the chaos below.
For a moment, they simply watched.
Edmund wasn't just winning—he was untouchable.
The few remaining fighters hesitated now, stepping back, their confidence shredded. They weren't Syndicate cowards, not most of them. They were killers, men and women who had ruled the underworld for years. But they had never faced something like this.
Char could see it on their faces—the realization that they were already dead.
Edmund's golden-flecked blue eyes flickered across the room, taking in the remaining fighters as if evaluating their worth.For a horrible moment, his gaze lifted—almost directly toward the skylight where Char and Tess crouched.
Char's breath caught in his throat.
Did he see us?
The moment passed, and Edmund turned his focus back toward the far end of the hall, where Varrel and Ivara were slipping out through a hidden exit.
Cowards. No—survivors.
They were the only ones who had a chance at rebuilding what remained of the Syndicate. The rest were already corpses.
Char wanted to look away. He wanted to shut his eyes, shut out the butchery, shut out the sick feeling curling in his gut.
But he couldn't.
Because this was his protagonist.
The hero he had written.
A hero who was meant to struggle. A hero who was meant to fight battles that pushed him, forced him to grow.
But this wasn't a battle. This was a slaughter.
He's too strong.
Char clenched his fists against the edge of the skylight, his breath coming in ragged pulls. I made him too strong.
Something inside of him felt like it was fracturing.
He had thought he was safe here, despite everything. Even with all the changes, even with the gaps the world was filling in, he had still believed there was some sense of structure. Some logic.
But this wasn't logical.
This was Edmund Ardent breaking the story apart with his bare hands.
And then, before Char could react, Tess moved.
She stood abruptly, drawing her blade.
Char's stomach dropped.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, grabbing at her arm, but she shrugged him off effortlessly.
"Going to meet him," she said simply.
"Tess, are you insane?!"
But she wasn't listening.
Before he could stop her, before he could do anything, she braced herself against the edge of the skylight and leapt through the glass.
The world seemed to slow.
Char barely had time to process the motion, barely had time to register the feeling of his heart slamming against his ribs as Tess dropped from above, landing directly in the middle of the bloodied hall.
A few remaining Syndicate members—those still barely alive—staggered back in confusion.
But Edmund—Edmund turned to face her.
Char could only watch in horror as their eyes met.
The butchery had ended. The massacre was over.
Now, something else was beginning.