CLICK.
The sound was louder than thunder. It was the sound of a mechanical lock snapping open.
The holographic screen exploded.
It didn't shatter into glass; it shattered into light. A shockwave of pure, blinding white code blasted outward from the desk.
It hit the Editor.
The red giant froze. It looked at its hands. The red jagged lines began to smooth out. The "Correction Ink" texture peeled away, revealing... nothing. It didn't turn into a monster. It just evaporated.
Because there was nothing left to correct. The "Draft" was finished. The file was closed. The editing software had no purpose anymore.
The Editor let out a long, low sigh—like steam escaping a valve—and dissolved into mist.
The shockwave hit me next.
It felt like being ripped out of a warm bed and thrown into a freezing lake. The UI overlay—the health bars, the text boxes, the glowing markers—was ripped away from my vision.
The glitched hole in my chest screamed with agony. Not digital static, but hot, wet, searing pain.
My legs gave out. I tumbled off the giant keyboard and fell to the stone floor.
Darkness took me.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.