The first thing I did was run.
Because of course I did.
Anyone who says they'd stand their ground when godlike enforcers of narrative collapse descend from the digital sky is either a liar or already dead.
But even as my legs burned and my lungs clawed for air, a cold realization gnawed at the back of my mind:
[Distance to Safety: Irrelevant.][Narrative Anchoring Detected. Escape Probability: 0.00%.]
The system wasn't just tracking me. It was fixing me in place, like a pinned line of code inside a corrupt executable. No matter how far I ran, I wasn't moving.
"You can't run from the role," the girl — the anomaly — said, appearing beside me like she'd always been there.
I skidded to a stop, heart hammering in my chest.
"Stop reading the system logs," she added, eyes narrowing. "The deeper you look, the faster they trace you."
I opened my mouth to protest — but she wasn't done.
"You think this is your story now, don't you?" she continued, her voice bitter and sharp. "Classic protagonist delusion."
"I never asked for this."
"No one ever does."
She motioned toward the fractured skyline, where the Thrones of Regression advanced with impossible precision. Each of them radiated an aura like static bleeding from broken speakers — hymns of entropy dressed as marching orders.
My throat went dry.
"What are they?"
"Failures," she answered grimly. "Failed endings. Collapsed timelines. They used to be stories, just like this one. Heroes who outlived their usefulness. Protagonists who defied their scripts."
"And what happens when they catch me?"
Her gaze turned to ice.
"They'll overwrite you."
[Narrative Directive: Overwrite Rogue Protagonist.][Reformatting in Progress…]
The words etched themselves across the sky again. I couldn't tell if it was part of the system or my own fractured perception. Maybe both.
The girl — no, my observer, my unknown variable — stepped closer.
"If you want to survive," she said, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial hush, "you'll have to do what no one else dared."
I swallowed hard. "What?"
"Hack the narrative."
She reached into her coat and pulled out what looked like a physical manifestation of corrupted data — a blade, its edge flickering between code and myth, digital glyphs racing across its surface.
"This isn't a sword," she explained, as if reading my mind. "It's an editing tool. Rewrite the lines of your fate, and maybe — maybe — you can survive the purge."
I hesitated. My fingers trembled as I reached for the blade, my reflection warped in its shifting surface.
"Why help me?" I asked.
A shadow crossed her face.
"Because," she said, with something that sounded dangerously close to regret, "I already failed my story."
Before I could press further, an impact split the air.
One of the Thrones of Regression landed on the fractured pavement, sending waves of corrupted data through the street. It raised a hand, porcelain mask tilting with mechanical malice.
[Executing Command: Purge Narrative Anomaly.]
Time slowed.
I saw my choices in flickering lines of code, hovering before my eyes like a desperate choose-your-own-adventure:
A) Run. (Failure: 100%) B) Fight. (Success Probability: Undefined) C) Submit. (Guaranteed Erasure)
For the first time in my life, I selected an option that wasn't even supposed to exist.
D) Reprogram.
My fingers closed around the blade.
And I cut.
Not at the enemy. Not at the ground.
At the very line of code suspending reality around me.
The effect was instantaneous. The scene jittered, as if buffering against itself. The masked enforcer froze, its command sequence fracturing mid-execution.
[System Error: Narrative Thread Severed.][Initializing Unstable Rewrite Protocol…]
The girl's eyes widened.
"You actually did it," she breathed. "You broke the scene anchor."
But there was no time for celebration.
The sky bled new warnings, crimson against the void.
[Warning: Higher-Tier Enforcers Deployed.][The Choir of Final Scripts Descends.]
The temperature dropped to impossible lows as a new presence filled the sky. Figures draped in algorithmic choir robes, their faces veiled, their voices not singing but compiling fate itself.
Her expression hardened.
"They've sent the Final Editors."
I raised the flickering blade of corrupted data.
My hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From something deeper.
The terrifying, intoxicating realization that — for the first time — I wasn't just reading the story.
I was rewriting it.