[The room is silent.
The eyes are gone.
The mirror is blank.
The typewriter is still.
But Ashe… he's not.]
[Ashe sits in front of the typewriter.
Cross-legged on the ground.
His hands are still burnt —
but his eyes…
they carry a strange clarity now.]
Ashe (soft voice, lost but honest):
"Her name was Eyla…
and I was more than just a chapter in her story.
Or maybe…
I was the least important part of it."
[He starts typing.
With every key pressed, a faint red print appears —
as if the machine isn't using ink anymore…
but blood.]
chik… chik… chik…
> "Eyla's smile was the prettiest line ever written in any diary."
> "And I was the line… that got cut off from her page."
[In the mirror, Eyla's face appears —
blurred, but smiling faintly.
The room is silent — but unnaturally calm.]
[From the typewriter, a soft sound —
less mechanical, more… like breathing.]
Ashe (pauses, looking at it):
"…Are you listening to me?"
[The typewriter presses a single key by itself — chik.]
> "I only exist… as long as you keep writing."
[Ashe's hands are covered in old scars —
but suddenly, fresh blood appears on the typewriter's keys.
Even though he's not bleeding.]
Ashe (quiet panic, but keeps typing):
"…Then whose blood is this?"
[In that moment, Eyla's smile fades.
Her face begins to distort — warping slightly.]
Eyla (from inside the mirror, voice colder):
"You wrote about me…
But you never wrote about yourself, Ashe."
Ashe (pauses, stunned):
"…Myself?"
[The mirror suddenly glows.
A new figure appears —
an exact copy of Ashe,
but with eyes that hold no light.]
??? (Ashe's reflection, emotionless):
"You hid more than you ever wrote."
[In one corner of the room —
a white page floats slowly into the air.
Blank.
But then, slowly, words appear on it —
without any pen or touch.]
> "The story never needed her... it needed YOU."
[Ashe stands up slowly, eyes locked on the mirror.]
Ashe (whispers):
"So what am I?
The writer?
The killer?
The witness?"
[His reflection leans toward the typewriter —
without moving in real life.
The typewriter syncs with both.]
Chik. Chik.
Chik chik chik.
> "You were the story…"
"…you just didn't want to be read."
[Ashe places his right hand on the typewriter —
and at that moment, one key presses down
as if crushed under a silent scream.]
[Blood shoots out —
not from the typewriter…
but from Ashe's fingertip.]
Ashe (screaming):
"AAAAHH—!!!"
[He falls back.
His fingertip is completely cut off —
but the physical pain…
it's nothing compared to the emotional one.]
Ashe (breathing heavily, lying on the floor, tears falling):
"…So writing…
means giving away my pain?
My blood?"
Eyla (mirror voice, slowly fading):
"Every story that's true…
takes a part of its writer, Ashe."
---
[The room slowly turns red.
Instead of eyes, now pages float across the walls —
all blank.]
Ashe now sees himself being written —
his actions…
his lies…
his thoughts.]
Mirror (final voice, low and haunting):
"Welcome to your own novel, Ashe.
From now on,
every word…
will cost you blood."
---
END OF CHAPTER 3 — PART 1