Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Spectre was gone, the survivors were free. The killers, simply gone. They had returned to the void from which they had emerged, slipping away into the darkness that had birthed them. It was over.

The nightmare that had haunted their world, the terror that had kept them chained in fear—everything had been swept away in the silence of the void. Peace, or perhaps the closest thing to it, had finally settled over the fractured remnants of their reality.

For most, that is. But not for 007n7.

He was the outcast, the shadow lingering on the edges of salvation. The one who preferred solitude over the glare of others’ pity or suspicion. Often, he was alone, wandering the ruins of what once was their sanctuary.

His presence was faint, a whisper among the broken structures, and yet he had always had companions—silent allies who kept him grounded, kept him sane in the chaos. Small, insignificant figures that lingered in his peripheral vision, reminding him he wasn’t entirely forgotten.

But now, everything had changed.

He was truly alone.

All the survivors had gone back to their lives, their routines, their worlds—leaving him in a forsaken dimension that was crumbling around him. The portal that had once connected him to the outside world was long gone, erased by the relentless decay of this dying realm.

It didn't matter anymore. He couldn’t leave—even if he desperately wanted to. His body, long since rotted away, was a hollow shell, a ghost of flesh and bone. He was dead—more accurately, he was the walking dead, caught in a limbo between worlds. The thought terrified him.

He was scared. Very scared.

He wondered if there was an afterlife, a place beyond this decay, beyond the void. But deep down, he knew he didn't want to find out. The idea of eternal nothingness was more frightening than the emptiness he now inhabited. If he left this realm, he feared he would simply cease to exist, erased from existence like a forgotten memory. His mind clung to that fear—the fear of obliteration, of vanishing into the ether.

Even if he had the power to go back, what normalcy would await him? C00lkidd was damaged beyond repair, a shattered remnant of what once was his son. The boy he loved, now a delusional husk—if he could even call it that. The innocence and hope had been drained from him long ago, replaced by madness and despair. C00lkidd was no longer the child he remembered, just a broken echo of a life that once thrived.

He had no jobs, no purpose. He doubted he could even find employment in whatever remained of the world. No one wanted a hacker as an employee. His friends had moved on, their lives pulling them away from this nightmare.

Surely, they’d found his rotted body by now, or perhaps they hadn’t. Perhaps they’d forgotten him entirely. Either way, it didn’t matter. Nobody cared about him anymore. He was dead to the world—dead to his friends, dead to his life.

And yet, he lingered here, in this decaying dimension, caught in a limbo of his own making. The once vibrant world was crumbling, the very fabric of reality tearing at the seams. The structures he had once known—the cabins, the forest, the distant hills—were falling apart, their wood rotting, moss creeping over their surfaces. The air was thick with moisture and decay, a testament to neglect and despair.

Guest1337 had stayed behind for a while, trembling at the thought that his wife had moved on, that his family had forgotten him. His presence was fragile, a flickering ember in the darkness. But eventually, 007n7 managed to coax him into going through the disintegrating portal, urging him to escape before the last remnants of their world dissolved completely.

Even if loneliness gnawed at him relentlessly, he couldn’t bring himself to condemn his friends to stay. No, he couldn’t. Not because he didn’t want them there, but because he believed they deserved better—deserved to escape this nightmare. He had sacrificed his own comfort, his own hope, to ensure they could find some semblance of safety, even if it meant remaining behind himself.

And so, in those initial rotations, life changed. The relentless fear of killers was gone, replaced by an eerie silence that pressed down on him. He wandered aimlessly through the ruins, exploring the neglected corners he’d once ignored.

He poked at abandoned generators, climbed ancient trees whose branches sagged under the weight of neglect, and scaled the crumbling walls of the decaying cabins. He binged on bloxxy colas—sweet, fizzy distractions—recklessly used his remaining items, throwing himself down hills just to feel something, anything.

But no matter what he did, the boredom persisted.

It seeped into his bones, gnawing at him with relentless hunger. The larger cabin, which once bustled with activity, was now eerily empty—save for the NPCs that stood motionless, their expressions blank, their voices silent. To him, they were more like objects—things that merely existed, devoid of thought or feeling. They never changed, never questioned, just... there.

He began to carve art into the sides of the buildings, scratches and symbols etched into the rotting wood. It was a futile attempt to create meaning, to leave a mark on this forsaken world. It passed the time, or so he told himself. Perhaps, in some twisted way, it was a way to defy the inevitable decay.

Most painfully, he missed 1337. He missed him dearly—more than words could express. The thought of his friend’s face, his voice, the warmth of companionship haunted him. But he was trapped here, alone, forgotten, unable to return to the life they once knew.

Time lost all meaning. Days, weeks, perhaps months—how long had he been here? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the emptiness, the silence, the slow erosion of hope.

He looked out over the crumbling landscape, a ghost among shadows, longing for connection, for salvation, for anything beyond this endless decay. But all he had was the memory of those who had left, and the faint hope that someday, somehow, this nightmare might end.

Until then, he remained—a solitary figure in a dying world, holding onto fragments of the past, clutching at the faintest glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something beyond the void.

Chapter Text

Days blurred into one another, a monotonous cycle of boredom and despair. The world outside had crumbled, but inside his mind, the days felt even longer, stretching into endless nights of silence and shadow. When he wasn’t consumed by tears or breakdowns that left him trembling on the cold floor, there was little left to occupy his fractured thoughts. His existence had become a routine of aimless wandering, hollow attempts at finding meaning in the ruins.

He desperately wanted to escape. To break free from this nightmare, to find some way out of this decayed dimension, no matter how impossible it seemed. His mind became a tool, a flickering flame of hope amid the darkness, searching for answers in the cracks and shadows.

To begin that search, he resolved to investigate the lobby—the central hub of their abandoned world—hoping to stumble upon something that could lead him to salvation. Every nook and cranny, every dusty corner, was scrutinized with a feverish intensity. He rummaged through debris, pushed aside broken furniture, and peered under tables, desperate for clues or tools that might aid his escape. But all he found were remnants of a past life—nothing that could help him now.

His gaze drifted to the clock on his wrist, a rare possession that still ticked faintly on his arm. Only ten minutes remained before the next round started, a familiar pattern he’d long since memorized. The map would be chosen, the game would commence, and he’d be pulled back into the endless cycle of survival and despair.

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Soon enough, he found himself at Yoricks Resting Place, the familiar landscape slightly altered by time’s relentless erosion. The once lively surroundings now stood silent and forsaken, the air thick with decay. He made his way to the mansion, moving slowly, methodically, searching for anything that might spark a glimmer of hope or curiosity.

As he walked, his feet brushed over the cracked, dusty floorboards. He swept his hand along the surfaces, scrutinizing every detail, every imperfection. Nothing. No sign of a secret, no hidden passage, no clue that might lead him out. Just the emptiness echoing his own hollow state.

He reached the hill, a familiar vantage point worn from countless loops. Dust and debris clung to the grass, and the wind whispered through the broken trees. His thoughts drifted—he paused, gazing out over the desolate landscape.

'The survivors...' he thought wistfully. 'I wonder where they are now.'

He missed them—each one, in their own way. He had considered them friends, even if they hadn’t all thought the same of him. He hoped they had returned to their lives, had found peace beyond this hellish realm. He liked to believe they were safe, reunited with loved ones, living normal lives somewhere far away from this rot and ruin.

He hoped—more than anything—that they had moved on, leaving him behind in this cursed, crumbling place. He imagined them smiling, their faces free of shadows and despair, finally at peace. It was a comforting thought, even if it was just that—only a thought.

But the ache lingered. Sometimes, he’d look at the NPCs—those lifeless figures who stood motionless in the shadows—and feel a strange sense of companionship. They never changed, never questioned, just existed as silent witnesses to his suffering. Their stillness was both a comfort and a torment. They were real in a way, yet utterly fake, just like everything else in this place.

His mind drifted back to the days when he’d try to find food. The hunger gnawed at him constantly. Without Elliots pizza to sustain him, he was left with nothing but the gnawing ache in his stomach. His body was weak, bones protruding beneath his skin, and the burning hunger was an ever-present reminder of his mortality—if such a thing still existed here.

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He realized he was losing himself again, caught in a trance of thought and longing. Shaking himself free, he turned towards the rotting structure that the survivors used to hide in, walking along the cracked pathway that led to the staircase. The building was a skeleton of its former self, the wood splintered and moss-covered, a testament to neglect and decay.

He kicked aside loose rocks and debris, following the worn trail until he reached the foot of the stairs. His hand brushed over the railing, rough and damp from age and rot. He hesitated, then ascended slowly, every step creaking beneath him.

At the top, he examined the interior, searching for anything that might give him a new purpose. Dust coated every surface, and the air was thick with mold and decay. He checked under tables, behind broken chairs—nothing. Just the silence, broken only by his own breathing.

He was certain there would be something—anything—to break this endless cycle of futility. His fingers traced the walls, feeling their rough, damp texture. Surely, there had to be a secret, a hidden mechanism, a way out.

But the only thing he found was a faint, barely perceptible echo of a melody—faint, like a distant memory. He whistled softly, trying to recall the song. It was a lullaby, gentle yet haunting. His mind searched for the title, the words, the meaning. He knew it was a song from long ago, perhaps from a childhood he barely remembered.

He hummed it quietly, letting the notes drift into the emptiness. The melody was on the tip of his tongue, but the name eluded him. He only knew that it brought a strange comfort, a fleeting sense of familiarity amid the chaos.

Suddenly, he was jerked back to reality by a shift—a lurch in the world beneath him. The ground trembled, an ache rippling through the fabric of existence. The world turned, and he found himself back in the familiar space of the cabin. The round had ended, and he was alone once more—left with nothing but the slow pulse of time passing.

He sat on the floor, his body slumped and exhausted. The silence pressed down on him like a heavy cloak. Was it even a round anymore? Or was it just the endless echo of his own solitude?

He approached the Brandon NPC again, staring into its dull, lifeless eyes. He pushed his fingers gently against its plastic face, waiting for the pre-programmed response.

“Let’s chat! How ya feeling?” the NPC prompted.

He selected the worst option—something bitter and dismissive—and then turned away, walking off without finishing the conversation. It didn’t matter. The NPCs were just echoes, echoes of a world that no longer existed.

He fiddled with the voicelines, trying to find some distraction, some fragment of normalcy. Eventually, he sank to the floor, clutching the dusty books he’d scavenged from the mansion. They were old, faded, and filled with themes that were ugly and biased—yet they were better than the emptiness that haunted him.

His eyes fell on a poem, a piece of literature that had once held meaning. Edgar Allan Poe, he thought. The words drew him in, resonating with his own feelings of loneliness, grief, and despair.

He read aloud softly, the words echoing in the hollow space:

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary—”

His voice faltered, a tremor in his tone.

“Darkness there, and nothing more.”

His eyelids grew heavy. Fatigue seeped into his bones, and he felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. The words blurred, merging into a single thought—his mind slipping into darkness.

He closed his eyes, the book slipping from his grasp, as sleep claimed him once more. In the quiet of the rotting world, surrounded by shadows and relics of a forgotten past, he drifted into an uncertain dream—perhaps of escape, or perhaps of finally finding peace in the silence.

Chapter Text

007n7 yawned, his eyes drearily opening to the dull, fusty glow filtering through the cracked ceiling of the cabin. The stale air pressed against him, heavy and oppressive, like a weight he carried everywhere. He shifted on the rough, cold floor, feeling the ache in his bones from another restless night. The silence around him was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the distant wind outside.

He pulled himself upright slowly, his bones protesting with each movement. His bony back ached as he scratched it absently, a habitual gesture that offered no real relief. Yawning again, he stood and looked around, preparing himself for the day ahead. It was one of his longer intermissions—about three hours—before he could move again, before he could escape the confines of this bleak space even momentarily.

The c00lgui. It was an object, a tool, a weapon—something he swore he'd never use again. Yet, there had been moments when he had been forsakened, lost in the shadows of his mind, and it had called out to him. It wasn’t powerful in the conventional sense, just weak commands that barely had any effect. But for him, it was a reminder of darker days, of a past he desperately wanted to forget.

He remembered his hacker days, the times when he had been reckless and ruthless, torturing hopeless Robloxians just to feed the destructive thoughts swirling inside him. Those days felt distant now, but the guilt lingered. Every time he thought about the c00lgui, a wave of shame washed over him. It symbolized a part of himself he was trying to leave behind.

He knew that the abilities he used were limited—weak commands that barely scratched the surface of control. Still, the guilt gnawed at him. Whenever he had resorted to those methods, he felt a sick thrill, a strange sense of relief that masked the pain. It was as if hurting others—or himself—distracted him from the ache inside.

Sometimes, he still did. Limiting himself, yes, but the urge remained. Some might call him crazy or an attention-seeker, but he knew the truth: harming himself was a way to feel alive, to drown out the despair that threatened to swallow him whole. It was borderline euphoric—the rush of pain, the release of tension, the fleeting escape from his mind’s torment.

He remembered the times he would cut himself, the sharp sting of a blade slicing through skin, the blood that poured out like a crimson torrent. Or the small acts of self-punishment—putting cigarettes out on his shoulder, burning away the shame and guilt. It was a cycle he couldn’t seem to break, a way of punishing himself for existing.

But today, there was a flicker of something different. A faint ember of hope buried beneath the darkness. He looked at himself—battered, scarred, and broken—and wondered if he could find a way out.

He knew that healing wouldn’t happen overnight. It was a slow process, like chipping away at the layers of pain that had accumulated over years. But he wanted to try. For the first time in a long while, he wanted to believe that he could get better.

The first step was acknowledging his pain without judgment. Accepting that he was hurting, but also recognizing that he deserved kindness—especially from himself. He took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, and let it out slowly.

He remembered a conversation he had once overheard—someone saying that wounds, whether physical or emotional, needed time and care to heal. That healing was messy and uncomfortable, but necessary. That he didn’t have to face it alone.

007n7 looked around the cabin, noticing the small things—an old photograph tucked into a corner, a worn blanket, a cracked mirror. Small symbols of life, remnants of a past that still existed. He reached out and touched the photograph gently, memories flooding back—moments of warmth, of laughter, of love that he had long suppressed for his son.

In that moment, he made a decision. He would start small. Today, he would resist the urge to harm himself. Instead, he would focus on self-care—sleeping good hours, taking a walk outside, or even just sitting quietly and breathing.

He knew that recovery wasn’t linear. There would be days when the darkness threatened to consume him again. But he also knew that each day was a new chance—a fresh start. He woudln't let the lonliness overcome him.

He remembered a quote he once read: "Healing is not linear. It’s messy, it’s unpredictable, but it’s worth it." That thought gave him a faint smile. Maybe he wasn’t alone in this journey. Maybe, just maybe, he could find light in the darkness.

As the hours passed, he forced himself to stand up and move. He looked out the window at the world beyond his cabin, at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The world was still turning, still alive, despite all his pain.

He took slow, deliberate breaths, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease. He reached out to write in a journal—a small act of expression that helped him process his feelings. Words flowed, tentative at first, then more confident. He wrote about his fears, his hopes, his desire to heal.

That day marked the beginning of a new chapter. It wasn’t perfect, and he knew there would be setbacks. But he was willing to try—to work toward a life where pain didn’t define him, where he could find peace within himself.

He understood now that healing wasn't about erasing his past, but about learning to live with it and moving forward despite it. It was about finding strength in vulnerability, courage in the face of despair, and hope that someday, he could feel whole again.

And so, he took one small step at a time, knowing that each day was a victory. He was still here, still fighting, still hoping. And that was enough. No matter how lonley it got, or how quiet the decaying realm was.

Chapter Text

The dim light of the late afternoon filtered through the small window of the cabin, casting long shadows across the cluttered shelves and scattered papers. 007n7 moved methodically, dusting off the shelves with a practiced hand, sneezing softly as a cloud of accumulated dust wafted into the air. He wiped down the counters, carefully organizing the pool tables—though they hadn’t been used in years—and tidied up the small kitchenette corner. It was monotonous work, but it was familiar, grounding. The routine gave him something to hold onto amid the chaos swirling inside his mind.

Cleaning had always been a way for him to drown out intrusive thoughts, to focus on something tangible rather than the tangled web of worries and questions that haunted him. As boring and uneventful as it was, it brought a strange sense of calm. When every speck of dust was gone and the surfaces gleamed, he would settle onto the old wooden dock outside the cabin, overlooking the murky, sea-green stillwater that stretched out before him.

There, in the silence, he would lose himself in thought. His fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the C00lGUI — the custom interface he’d crafted himself—tinkering with its codes, trying to make sense of the digital chaos that was his life. He’d managed to disable the rounds, the deadly protocols embedded deep within his system, but he hadn’t yet figured out how to reactivate them if necessary. It was a fragile peace, a delicate balance.

In the quiet moments by the water, he worked on updates, modifications, trying to regain control. The Spectre was no longer a threat. With it gone, all he had to do was re-code from scratch, rebuild his defenses, and perhaps, find a way to escape his digital prison altogether.

The process was tedious. Each line of code, each adjustment, could take hours or days. But he was determined. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he clung to the hope that someday, he could trigger a command—an escape button—to free himself entirely. He’d added a feature that allowed him to spawn as many items as he wanted—pizza, specifically. Elliot’s pizza.

He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the days when Elliot would bring him a steaming box of pizza after a long day of hacking or troubleshooting. The memory was bittersweet. God, he missed Elliot. He wondered if Elliot missed him back. But deep down, he knew it was unlikely. Why would he? Elliot had probably moved on, forgotten about him, just another ghost in his cluttered mind.

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007n7 wasn’t a violent person by nature. He’d always believed that violence was a last resort, a failure of understanding. Yet, sometimes, the darkness within him surged, craving destruction. He would feel a relentless urge to erase, to obliterate everything—every trace of existence—until only emptiness remained. The world, in those moments, seemed so overwhelming, so full of noise and chaos, that the idea of dissolving it all into nothingness became appealing.

He'd sit back on the dock, staring at the water, contemplating those dark impulses. A whisper in his mind echoed, chilling him: “Even if you kill everything, there will be one monster left.” The phrase haunted him, a reminder that no matter how much he destroyed, the darkness inside him would always persist. That monster was himself.

These thoughts made it difficult to concentrate on his coding, on his plans. The gnawing sense of futility and despair was a constant weight pressing down on him. So, he pushed the GUI away and retreated back into the cabin, seeking refuge in the pages of a dusty old book.

He pulled out a battered hardcover—an old fantasy novel about knights and dragons. The cover was faded, the pages yellowed with age. The story told of a brave knight investigating a mysterious, abandoned village. A ghostly figure haunted the tale, shrieking confusing accusations—“How could you!” and “Even in death, you haunt me!”—as if the very fabric of the story was stitched with madness and sorrow.

He read a few pages, then huffed in frustration. The story was nonsense, a jumble of clichés and melodramatic lines. The knight’s quest felt distant, disconnected from his reality. That book, like many others he’d read, was just a distraction—an attempt to escape his own thoughts. He closed it abruptly, the sound echoing in the silent room.

That was enough for today. The weight of his mind was too heavy, the chaos too loud. He rubbed his temples, took a deep breath, and stood up. The sun was setting now, casting a warm orange glow over the water. The world outside was peaceful, but inside, a storm raged on.

He looked out over the stillwater once more, contemplating his next move. The code was his only hope for freedom, yet it also felt like a trap. The more he tried to break free, the more tangled he became in his own creation. His mind drifted, pondering whether there was any way out—whether he could really escape this digital cage, or if he was doomed to be haunted by his own monsters forever.

Laying back on the dock, he stared at the darkening sky, thinking about Elliot again. The man had been a bright spark in his otherwise bleak existence. They had shared moments—quiet, simple moments—over pizza, over conversations that seemed to matter more than words. Elliot’s laughter, his easy smile, the way he’d listen patiently to 007n7’s ramblings—all of it felt like a fragile lifeline.

He wondered if Elliot knew how much he missed him. Did Elliot ever think about those days? Did he feel the same emptiness now? The questions lingered without answers. The world felt vast and cold, and he was just a small, lost figure adrift in its expanse.

As darkness settled fully over the water, he finally stood up, brushing off his pants. It was time to get back to work. The code needed refining, defenses needed strengthening, and perhaps, there was still some hope—however faint—that he might somehow find a way to break free, to reconnect, to reclaim his life from the shadows.

He turned back toward the cabin, the faint glow of the stars beginning to twinkle overhead. The night was quiet, but inside him, the tumult was far from over. Yet, amidst the chaos, a flicker of resolve burned—small but persistent. Tomorrow was another day, another attempt at salvation, another hope for a new beginning.

And somewhere deep inside, amidst the storm, he told himself: maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely lost.

Chapter Text

Another dry day dawned on the desolate island, the sun bleaching the already faded colors of 007n7's world. 007n7 stirred, the dried blood on his arm a testament to another restless night. he surveyed his memory-forged surroundings: the dilapidated wooden dock, the murky water lapping at its edges, the shadowed woods beyond.

—His carefully constructed routine, shattered by his own hand when he deactivated the temporal loop, left him adrift in a sea of loneliness more profound than the void water itself. He missed the camaraderie, the shared struggles, the easy banter of the other survivors – Elliot, Builderman, Taph, Dussekar, Shedletsky, Noob, and Twotime. But the ghost of Guest1337, who'd once filled his days with affection, haunted him most keenly.

He’d built a life here, a fragile existence amidst the decay, but the absence of Guest1337 felt like a gaping hole in his soul. He rose, his GUI-infused hooves finding purchase on the splintered wood, and began his daily task: decoding the cryptic, buggy code of this reality, a digital virus made manifest.

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His work was progressing slowly. The realm's code was a chaotic mess, a labyrinth of unfinished programs and nonsensical strings of numbers, far different from the orderly constructs he was accustomed to. As he delved deeper, a familiar nausea washed over him, a premonition of the warp-gates that had deposited the survivors here. He collapsed, the world swirling into a vortex of light and color. He awoke in an entirely new landscape – a vibrant field of purple flowers under a sky impossibly bright. Scattered trees dotted the expanse, and in the center stood a colossal, ancient tree, its bark etched with strange symbols.

The familiar timer ticked away, alongside the hum of unseen generators, confirming, this too, was a section of the corrupted reality. The symbols on the tree were strikingly similar to those on Twotime's distinctive attire, a chilling connection to the enigmatic Spectre. This seemingly unfinished, idyllic world seemed a stark contradiction to the rotting landscape of his home.

The incongruity, the unanswered questions, filled him with a growing unease. He felt he was a pawn on some larger board, and a game was afoot. Why was this map here? What purpose did it have? ...And why was it unfinished?

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Before he could further examine the tree, the nausea returned, a tidal wave of disorientation pulling him under. When consciousness returned, he was back on his rotting dock, the familiar damp wood cold beneath him. The faint scent of purple flowers clung to his clothes, a haunting reminder of the unfinished paradise he’d briefly glimpsed, and the unsettling truth that it was somehow connected to his own desolate reality. The mystery remained: what was the significance of the unfinished map? What role did Twotime play here? and what was the purpose of this shifting, corrupted realm? 007n7 knew his journey was far from over. His quest to understand this warped reality, and perhaps to find Guest1337 again, had only just begun.

(GELP I FORGOT TO PASTE THE OTHER HALF OF THE STORY LMAO)

As days passed, the anomalies grew more frequent—glitches flickering across his vision like faulty circuitry, whispers echoing in the wind that seemed to carry secrets just beyond comprehension, and fleeting shadows darting at the edge of his perception. Each time he glimpsed them, they vanished before he could focus, leaving him with a gnawing sense of unease.

One night, he drifted into a vivid dream— Guest1337’s face smiling warmly, their laughter ringing through a bright, endless meadow. They were sitting together under a sunlit sky, sharing stories, hope flowing freely between them. It felt so real, so tangible—a moment of pure, unfiltered connection.

But then, the scene darkened. The laughter faded. Guest1337’s face warped into a shadowed mask, their eyes hollow. The sky blackened, and the ground beneath him cracked open, swallowing everything. An oppressive silence settled, broken only by the distant hum of corrupted code.

'No...' 007n7 whispered in the dream, trembling.

Suddenly, the dream shattered like glass. He jolted awake—cold sweat dripping down his forehead, heart pounding fiercely. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him, a visceral reminder of what he had lost and what might still be out there.

In the dim silence of his makeshift shelter, 007n7 clenched his fists and sat up abruptly. The dream’s intensity lingered—the ache of longing, the hollow feeling of abandonment. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions: rage, despair, and desperate hope.

Without thinking, he swung his arm forward, fists pounding against the weathered wooden wall of his shelter. The sound of wood splintering echoed loudly in the quiet night. His fists struck again and again, each blow fueled by frustration and grief. The wooden planks cracked and splintered, dust and fragments flying into the air as he vented his fury.

"Damn it!" he shouted, voice hoarse and raw. "Why? Why am I stuck in this nightmare? Why can’t I find peace?"

His GUI-infused hooves scraped against the rough wood, leaving scratches and dents. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he refused to stop. The walls—both physical and emotional—had to break, if only for a moment.

He collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily, fists clenched tightly. His body shook with the effort of holding back tears, frustration bubbling over in a tumult of grief and anger.

As he sat there, catching his breath, the ambient glitches in his environment seemed to pulse more violently—colors flickering erratically, the air shimmering with distortion. The whispers grew louder—indistinct, yet ominous. Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision, teasing him, taunting him.

He looked around wildly, clutching his head. "This isn’t real... none of this is real..." His voice cracked with anguish. He knew deep down that these anomalies—these glitches—were manifestations of the realm’s decay, echoes of the corrupted code that kept this fractured universe alive.

A ripple of static passed through the air, and the whispers coalesced into a distorted voice—almost familiar, yet warped beyond recognition.

His fists trembled as he faced the chaos around him, a storm of digital decay and raw emotion. The frustration had become a roaring fire, threatening to consume him entirely.

Chapter Text

hi ghys

im going through some tough shit rn. so im putting this fic on haitus 4 now

idk how long itll be