The Stolen Story: Beyond the Play
The clock pointed to eleven at night.
Inside a quiet room, a man sat at his wooden desk. Papers were scattered across it, and a pen moved quickly over the last page of a thick notebook. He was writing the ending of his story.
He paused for a moment, looked at the final sentence, then smiled faintly.
“Finally… it’s finished.”
But the smile faded as if the cold air had swallowed it.
A sudden chill passed through the room, sending a shiver through his body. It felt as if the air itself had grown heavier, as if the walls had moved closer to him.
The pen stopped in his hand. His heart began to beat faster.
A faint voice came from behind him.
“Beautiful story.”
The man froze. Every movement inside him stopped.
Very slowly, he turned around, all his senses tense.
Someone was standing in the corner of the room.
He hadn’t heard the door open. He hadn’t heard any footsteps. Yet the figure was there, partially unseen, as if the shadows themselves were swallowing his features.
Writer: Who… who are you?
The reply didn’t come immediately.
The mysterious man spoke calmly, as if his words slipped into the writer’s mind before reaching his ears.
Stranger: A story exists in the collective consciousness. That means it is shared between different minds. Anyone—or anything—with a wider awareness can control the story, guide its events, and change its course. Ordinary people are merely part of the experience.
Yes… I took over a story. It was never only yours. It was a story shared by everyone. And even if it once belonged to you… it no longer does.
The writer trembled. Fear mixed with anger inside him, as if his entire body was screaming without a sound.
Writer: Who are you? What do you want from me?
The mysterious figure took a single step forward. He wore black gloves, his eyes fixed on the notebook in front of him.
Stranger: I liked the idea.
The writer gripped the pen tightly, his hand shaking.
Writer: Get out of here.
The stranger stopped in front of the desk. Slowly, he opened the notebook and read the final page. A few seconds of silence passed.
Then he spoke in a disturbingly calm voice.
Stranger: But the ending… is weak.
The writer’s anger burst out, his voice rising.
Writer: This is my story!
The stranger slowly lifted his gaze.
Stranger: It was.
He opened the desk drawer. Inside it was a gun.
The writer stared in shock.
Writer: How did this happen? There wasn’t a gun there—
But the stranger had already taken it and raised the weapon.
The writer’s eyes widened, his hand trembling.
Writer: Wait—
A single shot.
The sound of the gun echoed through the room. His heartbeat stopped for a moment before his body collapsed to the floor. Blood slowly spread beneath the desk.
The room fell silent again, but the air felt heavy, pressing against everything.
The stranger looked at the body for a few seconds… then turned back to the notebook.
He picked up the pen, turned the page, and wrote a sentence that had never existed in the original story.
The ink was still wet when he spoke quietly.
Stranger: Let’s see what happens… when the story breaks.
He closed the notebook, stood up, and left behind only one idea:
Name: Hawiya
From that moment on… the story began to deviate from its path.
Inside the headquarters of CN Organization, screens flashed with intermittent red signals.
The data was unstable. Lines of text changed without reason, and the events inside a single story had begun to move outside their natural course.
Several analysts sat in front of the monitoring systems, watching the changes in silence.
Analyst 1: We have an anomaly.
Another analyst leaned closer to the screen.
Analyst 2: Which story?
Multiple files appeared on the display… then the cursor settled on just one.
The very story whose creator had been killed only hours earlier.
Analyst 1: The changes are increasing… it’s like someone is rewriting the events.
Another analyst spoke with concern.
Analyst 3: Do we have the source of the anomaly?
The first analyst shook his head.
Analyst 1: No.
A moment of silence passed in the control room.
Then the order was given.
Analyst 2: Contact Brian.
Minutes later…
Inside the CN headquarters, books and scientific papers were piled across a wide desk made of dark wood.
Multiple computer screens displayed strange diagrams and lines of constantly shifting data.
The night light entered through a tall window, reflecting off the glass of the devices and giving the room a cold calmness.
Brian sat behind the desk wearing a formal suit. His body was burned, parts of it wrapped in bandages—except for his face.
He wrote notes in an old notebook, then paused for a moment to review the data on one of the screens.
He ran a tired hand through his hair before leaning back in his chair, watching the numbers move across the display.
Brian was a man accustomed to searching for truth in the darkest places.
His features were calm, but there was a clear firmness in them, as if many years of working within the CN Organization had shaped his character.
He carried a strong presence—a face capable of enduring the harshest conditions without breaking.
The wrinkles and dark circles beneath his eyes told the story of long nights spent analyzing strange phenomena and hunting anomalies within stories.
Brian was not just a scientist.
Whenever someone tried to manipulate stories or alter their course… he was the one sent to restore things to their proper order.
The communication device on his desk rang.
He slowly raised his eyes toward the screen.
One message appeared.
System Message: Narrative Anomaly Detected.
He remained silent for a moment, then opened the file.
The story in front of him began to change its lines slowly.
Brian stopped writing and stared at the screen.
Then his inner voice spoke calmly.
Brian (Inner Voice): In this world… there are few things more dangerous than a story that has gone off its path.