Elion sat alone at his desk long after midnight, the light of a single oil lamp casting warped shadows across the walls. The page lay before him—unchanged, still blank—but it no longer felt like paper. It felt like presence.
Every time he glanced away, something deep inside urged him to look back. Not with curiosity, but with instinct. As if the paper might vanish the moment he stopped acknowledging it. As if it was watching him.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. Even the clock on the far wall had stopped ticking. He checked it. The hands were frozen at 3:33.
He swallowed. Something wasn't right.
He reached out and touched the paper again.
Instantly, the air shifted. The lamp sputtered. The shadows seemed to stretch and lean toward him. His ears began to ring—not sharply, but subtly, like pressure from deep underwater.
And then, it came.
A whisper that wasn't sound.
A thought that wasn't his.
You hear us.
Elion flinched. He stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking over the lamp. He looked around. No one. Nothing.
— Who's there? — he asked, his voice thin and tight.
No answer. Only silence.
He stepped back, breath shallow, hand instinctively brushing the side of his neck. And there it was again—that faint pressure behind his right ear, as if someone had placed a finger just below the skin.
His knees gave out.
And then he was somewhere else.
He stood in a vast chamber without walls. A darkness stretched beyond sight. There was no floor, yet he stood. No ceiling, yet a low hum echoed above him.
In the center of this nothingness was a single chair.
He approached it slowly. The closer he got, the more symbols began to float around him—shimmering shapes of light and shadow.
A spiral.
A mouth sewn shut.
A blindfolded eye.
A clock with no hands.
Nine symbols.
One of them pulsing faintly.
Then came the voice again. No sound, yet undeniable.
You are the Ninth.
The Listener.
The Eye That Does Not See.
The Mouth That Will Not Speak.
The Echo that Watches.
He reached toward the chair.
The moment his fingers touched the wood, pain surged through his skull. Not like fire, but like his thoughts were unraveling. Like his memories were being rearranged.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn't.
Instead, he whispered words he didn't know he knew.
I accept.
The symbols spiraled inward, piercing through him like soft wind. One burned into the skin behind his ear. And then, everything collapsed.
He woke on the floor of his room.
His lamp was out. The desk was untouched. The page was still there. Still blank.
But he felt it.
The mark was real.
He rushed to the mirror. For a moment, he saw himself.
And then his reflection blinked without him.
It smiled.
— We are listening — it said, in his own voice.
But his lips had not moved.