The ink runs thin, as the world begins to fray at its edges, and sentences collapsing into silence.
Hades stands where endings gather, cloak heavy with the weight of unfinished fates, and eyes burning with a will that refuses the period.
Before him, Azathoth churns—not as a flesh, not even as a thought, but a simple blind, churning will that dreams all things into being and unmakes them without care.
The books flicker like dying words, and even the reality itself seems to hold their breath.
Hades stood firm, his boots planted on a floor of solid shadows. In front of him was an enemy he had to kill, the enemy that must be eliminated for everything to end.
"You are nothing but a memory the Author wants to lose," the distorted voice of Azathoth hissed from a million mouths. "You think being able to stand here, being able to walk out of your dimension, means you are now real? Hades, God of the Dead, Ruler of a Fictional World. Here, you are nothing."
