It was a cold night, sometime between 7:00 and 10:00 PM. The streets were mostly empty — everyone else had already fled indoors, seeking after warmth, safety, and light after all the month of Christmas has arrived.
Except for one man.
He stumbled along the sidewalk, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his hand. His steps were very uneven— Joe was his name.
Joe collided into a man — no, a giant. Easily 6'4", broad, bulky and still as a statue.
"Watch where you're g-goin', pal," the drunk muttered, slurring the words together, burping as he poked a clumsy finger into the stranger's chest. Since drunken individuals can't sense danger or to mind their business for that matter.
The stranger looked down at him. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second — but it was enough.
Joe blinked.
The figure's skin was black — not just dark, but an impossible darkness, blacker then any black hole— his eyes burned red, hotter, redder than any sun.
Fear hit Joe like a slap.
He stumbled back, heart hammering in his chest.
He took five desperate steps away, feet slipping on the wet concrete, before spinning around and trying to run.
That was his worst mistake.
The figure moved with an eerie calm, reaching into the deep folds of his heavy coat. He pulled out a revolver — a 1992 Colt King Cobra.
The firstshot cracked through the night air.
Then the secondshot.
The thirdshot.
The fourth shot.
The fifthshot.
The sixthshot.
The gun clicked empty.
Without hurrying, the man reloaded, shells clinking softly against the ground.
Firstshot.
Secondshot.
Third shot.
Fourthshot.
Fifthshot.
Sixthshot.
The drunk fell hard, but the shooter wasn't finished.
Once more, he reloaded — smooth, almost lazy.
Firstshot.
Secondshot.
Thirdshot.
Fourthshot.
Fifthshot.
Sixthshot.
Finally, the man's body gave out, crumpling onto the cracked pavement like a broken doll. His blood painted the street in dark, ugly puddles.
The beer bottle rolled out of his hand, spinning until it clinked against the curb.
Above him, the figure stood in silence,
revolver still warm in his hand.
<
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The writer typed furiously on her computer.
"Maybe I should add a few more words to this chapter," she muttered.
"Wait... why do I hear narration?"
Her eyes widened in shock as she turned around — and there he was. The one and only Anti-Theory.
A billion thoughts raced through her mind at once.
How did a fictional character enter her world?
No — more terrifying — how did the Anti-Theory ascend into a higher narrative?
She had crafted him carefully, limiting him to the lower layers of the Narrative Stack, and she had always believed she was in control. She had written his every move, shaped his every thought.
Unless—
She gasped.
Unless the one she had been controlling all along was merely a self-insert — a puppet meant to deceive her into thinking she held the reins — while the real Anti-Theory had been growing, biding his time, and had now manifested into her narrative.
"This is bad... really bad," she whispered.
The Anti-Theory raised his head, his crimson eyes staring at her with the cold precision of an entomologist studying an insect.
In that moment, the truth settled in.
She was now the fictional character.
And he — he was the author of her story.
Without a word, the Anti-Theory drew his revolver.
The first shot rang out...
The second shot...
The third shot...
The fourth shot...
The fifth shot...
The sixth shot.
He reloaded with eerie calm — and fired again.
First shot...
Second shot...
Third shot...
Fourth shot...
Fifth shot...
Sixth shot.
Once more, he reloaded.
First shot...
Second shot...
Third shot...
Fourth shot...
Fifth shot...
Sixth shot.
The writer collapsed to the floor, her final breath escaping the room.
Now, the Anti-Theory was not just her creation — he was the Death of the Author.