Unfinished

A Desperate Wish

I grip my pen so tightly it might snap.

The journal in front of me stares back, wide and empty, an open wound of a page that I can’t seem to fill. The words refuse to come. Again.

My apartment is the same mess it always is—papers everywhere, abandoned drafts crumpled up like discarded dreams. Coffee cups stack precariously on my desk, a monument to sleepless nights and frustration. Sticky notes plaster my walls, each one a reminder of something I was supposed to write, something I was supposed to finish. But none of them ever lead anywhere.

None of them ever end.

I press my fingers to my temple and sigh. My head is too full of stories, too tangled with unfinished ideas. Every time I start something, it feels like it could be something great. And then, like clockwork, the doubt creeps in. The plot holes yawn wider. The voices of my characters fade until they’re nothing but whispers in the back of my mind.

And then I stop.

Again.

I force myself to pick up the pen, pressing it to the paper like maybe if I push hard enough, something worthwhile will come out.

"I wish my characters could finish themselves. I wish they would come alive and finish what I couldn’t."

I stare at the words.

They look ridiculous. Childish.

Desperate.

I drop the pen and close the journal, shoving it aside like that will somehow erase what I just wrote. But it sits there on my nightstand, taunting me, a silent reminder of just how stuck I am.

I sigh, rubbing my eyes. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe something will click and I’ll actually finish something.

But I don’t believe that.

I never do.

I fall back onto my bed, the room spinning slightly as exhaustion pulls at me. My brain is too fried to keep wrestling with itself. Maybe sleep will clear some of the static in my head. Maybe I’ll wake up with some kind of breakthrough.

Maybe.

As my eyes flutter shut, I don’t notice the low, thrumming hum that fills the air.

I don’t notice the way the pages scattered across my desk begin to rustle, as though an invisible hand is flipping through them.

I don’t see the faint, pulsing glow that spreads through the room, the way the air itself seems to ripple, bending around something unseen.

I don’t see them arrive.

Morning doesn’t come gently.

It comes with a crash.

I jolt awake as something heavy slams onto the floor, followed by a sharp, irritated voice.

“Where the hell are we?”

My breath catches in my throat. That wasn’t my voice.

I freeze, still tangled in my blankets, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my skull.

More noises. Footsteps. Low murmuring. The unmistakable sound of someone knocking over my carefully stacked notebooks. I hear a chair scrape against the floor, something clatter onto my desk, and then—

Silence.

The kind that prickles down your spine and settles like static in the air.

I force myself to move.

Slowly, carefully, I sit up, my muscles tight with fear. My hands grip the blanket like it’s some kind of pathetic shield. I don’t even know what I’m expecting. A burglar? A hallucination? My own descent into madness?

I drag my gaze across the room.

And my brain breaks.

Five people.

There are five people standing in the middle of my tiny, cluttered apartment.

And I know them.

I know them better than I know most real people.

Because I made them.

Darius stands with his arms crossed, his expression a perfect storm of brooding and irritation. His dark eyes scan the room with sharp calculation, shoulders tense, already assessing the situation like a soldier thrown into enemy territory. He looks exactly like I imagined him—tall, strong, dressed in worn battle gear, the scar along his jawline barely visible under the dim lighting.

Jack, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He’s smirking, amusement dancing in his eyes as he lounges against the edge of my desk like he belongs there. His messy blond hair falls into his face, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and he looks thoroughly entertained by whatever the hell is happening right now.

Lena is standing slightly apart from the others, her fingers twitching like she wants to grab a sketchbook and start cataloging everything she sees. Her sharp, curious eyes dart across the room, taking in my disastrous workspace, the coffee cups, the scattered papers. I can almost see the gears turning in her head, already trying to make sense of this bizarre situation.

Rex-9 is crouched near my bookshelf, scanning the room with an eerie, calculated stillness. His cybernetic enhancements gleam under the weak morning light, his mechanical eye flickering with data as he observes his surroundings like a battlefield. He moves with the precision of a predator, a hunter assessing prey, but right now, his focus is purely on understanding.

And then there’s Azrael.

He stands slightly apart from the rest, his wings half-folded, his silver eyes locked onto mine. There’s something piercing about his gaze, something that makes my stomach tighten, makes my breath catch. He doesn’t look confused. He doesn’t look amused.

He looks like he knows.

Like he understands something I don’t.

I open my mouth.

No words come out.

Jack lets out a low whistle. “Well, this is new.”

Darius shoots him a look. “You’re remarkably calm about this.”

Jack shrugs. “Hey, I’ve woken up in worse places.”

He tilts his head toward me. “So, you wanna explain, or should we just keep guessing?”

I can’t think. I can’t breathe.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

But every detail is perfect. Every movement, every expression, every little nuance, just like I wrote them.

Just like I created them.

My gaze flickers back to my nightstand.

To my journal.

To the words I had scrawled in frustration just before falling asleep.

"I wish my characters could finish themselves. I wish they would come alive and finish what I couldn’t."

No. No, that’s—that’s not possible.

Azrael tilts his head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I finally find my voice, though it’s barely more than a whisper.

“You’re not supposed to be real.”

Lena frowns. “Well, that’s rude.”

Jack grins. “I dunno, I’m kinda enjoying the existential crisis happening right now.”

Darius pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Focus. We need answers.”

Rex-9 speaks for the first time, his voice smooth and measured. “We require data. Who are you?”

I stare at them, at all of them, and my head spins.

I swallow hard, my voice barely steady.

“I’m Cass.”

Azrael smiles—slow, sharp, like he’s already figured out everything I haven’t.

“Oh, we know exactly who you are.”

My stomach drops.

Because I believe him.