The hallway seemed endless. A corridor without time, without direction. Each step echoed like a tolling bell, ominous and heavy. The air carried the chill of the void—not the cold of wind or stone, but that of a world suspended, as if awaiting to be written.
Behind him, the interrogation room had fallen silent. The man in the gray suit had closed the black file like one closes a coffin. He hadn't said anything important, yet a truth had erupted in silence:
The Writer exists. And he is here.
He was gently pushed forward, without violence. The guards were not human—too rigid, too silent. Their faces were blank, their gestures mechanical. They resembled worn memories, forgotten phrases from an old manuscript.
He wanted to resist for a moment—out of pride or fear. But the ink chains around his wrists did not budge. They weren't there to punish. They were there to read.
Then the door opened.
And he entered.
The cell.
The atmosphere changed instantly. The air was thick, laden with ancient whispers. The circular walls seemed to still echo the screams of another time. The white floor was worn from waiting. The ceiling—unfindable. And yet… there was light. Coming from everywhere and nowhere. And despite that… shadows existed.
There were seven of them.
Sitting, lying down, curled up. Some sleeping, others staring into the void. All seemed to have come from unfinished tales.
And then… he saw him.
Him.
The old man.
Sitting at the center, like a core around which the world revolved. His beard was white from waiting. His coat—nothing more than a memory of fabric. On his lap, a black notebook. Between his fingers, an ancient pen, almost alive. It trembled slightly, as if writing by itself, driven by a will greater than his own.
The Writer.
He did not raise his eyes. But he knew. He knew the newcomer was there. He had probably anticipated it. Maybe he had even written it.
The protagonist—the one who no longer had a name—stood still. Observing. Searching for a clue, an exit, a memory. Nothing.
Around him, the others waited.
Modigeur, a chubby-cheeked boy, was chewing something sweet. Where the food came from—no one knew. But his eyes sparkled with joy at every bite. He wore a scarf embroidered with runes, far too noble for him.
Leonardo, a nervous young man, laughed silently. He whispered to an invisible twin—his mental reflection. His mind was a shattered labyrinth.
Vichir, unmoving, his eyes flickering. Mechanical lenses had replaced his pupils. He was no longer human. Or perhaps never was.
There was a girl too. Her back to the others. Curled in a fetal position. Enormous blackened wings folded around her. A fallen angel. A creature plummeted from the sky, who no longer remembered her height.
A boy traced symbols in the air. Each gesture birthed glowing constellations. The Dreamer. He gazed into a world only he could see.
Another girl floated—barely. Her breathing was slow, suspended. With every breath, gravity faltered. Between two realities.
And finally, the Marble. A stunning young man, charismatic… yet hollow. A gaze without memory. A perfect body. A statue inhabited by nothingness.
Then, at the center…
The Writer lifted his gaze.
Their eyes met.
It was not a human gaze.
It was the gaze of a pen.
A gaze that wrote even as it observed.
He did not speak immediately. He turned a page. Slowly. Then another. The silence grew heavier.
Then he said:
— This place is not a prison.
His voice carried the weight of centuries. Rich. Worn.
— It is a prologue. A margin before truth. You are not here because you are guilty. You are here… because you might write the ending.
He rose. Slowly. The notebook still pressed to his chest. He stepped forward.
— You have seen. You have understood. You have spoken.
The protagonist tried to respond. But no words came. They had forgotten how to speak in a written world.
The Writer showed him the pen. Not to offer it. But to be recognized.
— The Codex allowed me to write the origin.
— Now… I seek the one who will write the last chapter.
Then he opened his notebook.
And wrote a single word:
"Awakening."
The world tilted.
The walls breathed. The ceiling cracked.
The seven others stirred all at once, pulled from dreamless slumber.
Their eyes gleamed. Their powers trembled.
And in that silent uproar, the one-who-has-no-name understood:
Chapter 1 had just begun.