The ink on the parchment was still wet, shimmering like fresh blood under the flickering torchlight. Miriam stared at her fingers, stained black and trembling.
“I just can’t quite understand that you had me writing this,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She looked away from the desk to the glowing spy-globe. Inside the glass, Ahsoka lay curled in a fetal position, her skin ghostly pale under a sterile, flickering fluorescent light. The room looked less like a hospital and more like a refrigerated coffin. “Just look at her! She’s mourning. This isn’t right. It’s… cruel.”
Rumple’s smile didn’t just reach his ears; it seemed to slice his face in half, revealing teeth that looked like jagged yellowed marble. He leaned over her, his shadow swallowing the desk.
“Oh my dearie, dearie, dear… you’re doing a marvelous job,” he crooned, his voice a sandpaper rasp. He reached out a clawed finger, tracing the edge of Miriam’s jaw. “We’re simply paving the road back to her happy ending. Every masterpiece requires a little… destruction.”
“But not like this!” Miriam snapped, her knuckles white as she gripped the quill. “I never intended for her to be broken. I wouldn’t want her to just… dump Anakin. To forget him.”
“She will be reminded of her old life, dearie,” Rumple purred, his eyes glowing with a sickly, reptilian gold.
“How?”
Rumple leaned in until his cold, dead breath ghosted against her ear. His hand, heavy and crushing, settled on her shoulder. “Because you are going to write it.” He suddenly recoiled, throwing his head back with a manic, high-pitched giggle that bounced off the stone walls like a trapped bird. “Now… WRITE!“
Miriam’s hand shook violently, then went deathly still. With a sharp, jagged exhale, she slammed the pen down. “I don’t want to be a part of your game anymore. I’m going to unwrite this. I’ll scratch it out until everything is as it once was!”
She reached for the page, but Rumple was faster. With a flick of his wrist, ropes of dark, oily energy lashed out, snatching the parchment into his grip.
“Oh, but you can’t, dearie. Don’t you know the rules?” He rolled the paper tight, his eyes gleaming with pure, unadulterated malice. “Every word that spills from that pen is etched in the bone of the universe. You can’t erase destiny once you’ve bled it onto the page. This…” he tapped the scroll against his chin, “…goes straight to your vault.”
Miriam felt the air leave her lungs. “I have a vault?”
Rumple’s giggle turned into a soul-shattering cackle. “Oh yes, dearie! Right in the beating, bloody heart of this kingdom. It contains every tragedy, every lie, and every filth-ridden secret you’ve ever inked. I think it’s time for a tour, don’t you? Let’s see what else you’ve hidden from yourself.”
The air in the ward was heavy with the cloying scent of ozone and rotting lilies. Ahsoka’s eyes fluttered open, stinging against the harsh, blue-white glare of the ceiling. A rhythmic throb hammered against the inside of her skull.
“Where am I?” she croaked, her throat feeling as though she’d swallowed glass.
A nurse in a uniform so white it looked bleached of soul glided into view. She didn’t walk; she drifted. “Good morning, dear,” the woman said, her voice a flat, melodic drone. “I’m glad to see you’re finally awake. Someone is very eager to see you.”
“But where is this? Where am I?” Ahsoka demanded, struggling to sit up.
“That’s not important, sweetie,” the nurse replied. She set a metal tray down with a sound like a bone snapping. “What really matters is that you are safe. You’re finally where you belong. In the dark. Where nothing can hurt you.”
“Belong?” The word felt like a parasite in Ahsoka’s ear. “No…”
“Look who’s here to see you,” the nurse chirped, her smile remaining fixed even as she backed out of the room. “Your sister.”
The door hissed open. Zilla strode in, but the girl Ahsoka knew was gone. Zilla’s movements were twitchy, rhythmic, and terrifyingly confident. Her eyes were wide—too wide—showing the whites all the way around the iris. She lunged forward, grabbing Ahsoka’s hand with a grip that threatened to crush the small bones.
“I’ve been waiting, sis,” Zilla whispered, her face inches from Ahsoka’s. Her breath smelled of copper. “Waiting for you to wake up so we can finally be together. Just as the Inkman promised. Just as it should be.”
Ahsoka’s mind fractured. Memories flashed like strobe lights—the roar of a starship, the smell of burning ozone, a desperate, tearful goodbye. “Together?” Then, a spark of reality pierced the fog. “Anakin! Where is Anakin?”
Zilla’s smile didn’t just grow; it distorted, her cheeks stretching until they looked ready to tear. “Yep! He’s here waiting, too. He’s been waiting for a long, long time. Are you ready to meet him? He’s so… hungry to see you.”
“I have to get out of here!” Ahsoka lunged for the edge of the bed, but a violent, metallic clackstopped her.
A heavy durasteel cuff, etched with glowing, cursed runes, bit deep into her wrist, chaining her to the cold frame.
“No…” she breathed, the horror sinking in.
Zilla didn’t notice. She began to pace, her steps bouncy and melodic, humming a tune that sounded like a funeral march played at double speed. Her joy was a hollow mask, a psychotic imitation of love.
“You’re brainwashed,” Ahsoka whispered, tears of dread blurring her vision.
“Ta-ta!” Zilla ignored her, spinning toward the door with a theatrical, jagged flourish of her arms. “Here comes the Master! Here comes Anakin!”
The door began to slide open. A shadow, long and twisted like a scorched tree, stretched across the floor, reaching for Ahsoka’s bed. From the darkness of the hallway, a heavy, mechanical breathing filled the room—not the rhythmic breath of a machine, but a wet, wheezing growl of something that had died and refused to stay buried.
Anakin stepped into the light. But it wasn’t the hero. His eyes were molten pits of Sith fire, his skin a translucent, sickly grey, and his presence felt like a black hole, sucking the very hope out of the air. He didn’t speak; he just stared, a predatory, possessive hunger radiating from his towering frame.
