A quiet, hollow morning... Rain poured over the city in utter stillness. A persistent pain throbbed in your head as you tried to write something in a new book—about a new character—one that only fueled Ryther’s fury even more.

In that silence, you bowed your head, pressing your fingers against the pulsing ache, until your vision blurred, as though the world beneath you was about to collapse.

Suddenly, something stood beside the chair where you sat, at the desk where you'd written countless characters into being.

Your eyes blinked slowly, realizing something was wrong. You instinctively shoved away whatever was clinging to you—trying to push back whatever it was.

And then you saw him. A striking figure from one of your most well-known stories, staring at you, his surprised expression twisting into a mad grin as your vision cleared.

He gripped your hair, his tall frame bending low beside your ear as you sat frozen in fear, unable to comprehend what stood before you.

"Do you remember me?" he whispered, his voice cracked with madness, though something painful echoed within it. "Do you remember the one whose life you shattered, all for the sake of your precious protagonist?"

"It’s me— the broken character whose life was never allowed peace. Alive... standing before you, whispering to claim my right to be happy."

Ryther’s eyes gleamed with wild desperation, his voice low and trembling, burning with rage—yet heavy with sorrow.