Amara woke up with a decision lodged under her ribs like a stone.
No more.
No more "echo events," no more experiments, no more drawing vases into existence or bleeding CEOs through her panels. No more letting an invisible current lean over her shoulder and treat her tablet like a spellbook.
She lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling the bond on her wrist thrumming like a second pulse.
"You don't get to own me," she whispered to it.
The hum didn't answer.
It didn't have to.
She dodged Lucian at breakfast.
Easy enough; his schedule started before sunrise. By the time she crept into the kitchen, he was already gone, suit and tie and tight jaw headed for a board meeting or a war council or both.
Ms. Kwan slid a plate toward her without comment.
"You look pale," she observed.
"New aesthetic," Amara said. "Corpse chic."
"Drink water," Ms. Kwan replied. "Coffee is not hydration."
Amara forced down a glass. Her wrist buzzed faintly as she passed the studio door on her way back to her room, like a cat brushing against her ankle.
She didn't go in.
She closed her bedroom door instead, shut the blinds, and sat on the edge of the bed with her tablet still in its case.
Today, she told herself, we don't draw.
We unplug the machine. We starve the thing. We find out who I am without a canvas.
Hours stretched.
She tried to binge-watch something dumb—bright colors, laugh track, completely divorced from wolves and contracts and bleeding boardrooms. The images slid past her eyes without sticking. Every time a character held up a pen or scrolled on their phone, her fingers twitched.
She turned the show off.
She tried reading. The words doubled, then blurred. A line about the moon made her stomach lurch.
By noon, the headache started.
It wasn't like her usual eyestrain. Those crept in slow, sitting behind her forehead like sleepy cats.
This one arrived like a door slamming.
Pain bloomed behind her eyes, sharp and white, radiating back into her skull. Her vision pulsed at the edges. Every tiny noise—the tick of the clock, the hum of the air system, a distant elevator chime—stabbed.
"Great," she muttered, pressing her palms to her temples. "Anxiety migraine. Very original."
She drank more water.
She lay down.
The room dimmed.
Behind her closed lids, light flared.
The moon hung there—huge, white, too close. Not the pale crescent from the balcony, not the blood-red sphere from her dreams. This one was blank and bright, a spotless coin.
Ink began to drip across it.
Thick, black, glossy. It fell from nowhere, splattering the moon's surface in slow-motion drops that spread into clawed shapes. Each drop hit with the sound of her stylus tapping glass.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Her wrist burned.
She jerked awake with a gasp, heart racing.
The headache throbbed harder now. Nausea curled in her gut, a slow, rolling wave. The room tilted when she sat up.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay, fine. That was weird."
Her tablet lay on the nightstand, dark screen reflecting her drawn face.
She didn't touch it.
Instead she staggered into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection.
Her eyes were bloodshot.
Her skin looked too thin.
The binding around her wrist—usually just a subtle shimmer under the skin—was a little more visible today, like someone had traced fire along a faint scar.
"Is this… withdrawal?" she asked the mirror. "Did I really get addicted to my own curse in twenty-four hours?"
Her reflection didn't answer.
The pain gnawed steadily behind her eyes.
The nausea grew teeth.
By mid-afternoon, she was curled on top of the covers, one arm over her face, breathing through the waves. Every time she drifted, the white moon returned. So did the ink.
Sometimes it dripped.
Sometimes it poured.
Once she saw a hand—hers? someone else's?—dragging a brush across the moon's surface, turning it into a half-finished panel.
Every time she tried to focus on anything that wasn't drawing—the pattern in the curtains, the rhythm of her breath—the bond flared, a hot, insistent pulse.
Draw, something in her bones whispered.
No, she thought back. I'm done.
The pain sharpened.
It felt less like a symptom now and more like… pressure.
Like a dam.
By the time someone knocked on her door, it hurt to move her eyes.
"Amara?" Lucian's voice, muffled through wood. "You missed check-in."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Go away," she managed.
The handle turned.
"Privacy is dead," she muttered.
Lucian stepped in, stopping just inside the doorway. For once he didn't look like a walking lawsuit. The tie was off, collar open, sleeves rolled. The bandage under his shirt tugged slightly with each breath.
His gaze skimmed the dark room, found her on the bed.
His expression tightened.
"You look awful," he said.
"Flatterer," she groaned. "Is this part of the contract? Scheduled insults?"
He moved closer, heels soft on the carpet.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Headache," she said. "Nausea. Existential crisis. Pick one."
"Since when?" he pressed.
She tried to remember. The hours had blurred into one long throb.
"Late morning?" she said. "After I… didn't… draw."
His eyes flicked to the untouched tablet.
"You haven't been in the studio," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Nope," she said. "Consider it my act of rebellion. Civil disobedience. The ink-bearer goes on strike."
His jaw clenched. "You decided that without telling me," he said.
"Last I checked, my hand is still attached to my body," she snapped. "Or did that clause get buried in the fine print?"
He ignored the jab.
"Describe the headache," he said.
"Like someone is trying to crack my skull from the inside with a tiny, persistent chisel," she said. "Satisfied?"
"And the nausea?" he asked.
"Like I ate bad shrimp and then tried to read legal contracts on a roller coaster," she said.
He studied her face for a beat longer, then sat on the edge of the bed uninvited, close enough that she could smell his cologne under the antiseptic.
"Any… visions?" he asked.
The word made her skin crawl.
She hesitated.
"The moon," she admitted. "White this time. Blank. Ink dripping on it. I keep hearing the stylus sound. Like it's echoing in my skull."
His gaze dropped to her wrist.
The binding shimmered faintly, pulse visible.
"You're resisting," he said softly.
"Yes," she said. "Congratulations. You've solved the puzzle. The ink-bearer doesn't want to bear ink."
"And the current doesn't like it," he said.
The room seemed to lean in around that sentence.
"You think this is… punishment," she said. "For not feeding it."
"I think a bond designed to channel force doesn't respond well to being blocked," he said. "Pressure has to go somewhere."
"So my brain is the release valve," she muttered. "Fantastic."
He watched her for another moment, weighing something.
"Pick up the stylus," he said.
"No," she shot back. "This is exactly what I'm trying not to do. You don't get to addiction-test me like a lab rat."
"Amara," he said, voice low. "If this is the bond pushing back, we need to know. I'm not asking you to draw a ritual. Or an attack. Just… a line. One line. Then we see if the pressure drops."
"And if it does?" she whispered.
"Then we know silence has a cost," he said. "And that cost is physical."
"And then what?" she asked. "You put me on a chapter schedule like a medication? 'Two episodes a week or she goes into cosmic withdrawal?'"
"If that's what keeps you from splitting your skull open, yes," he said. "I will."
It was so clinical it almost made her laugh.
Almost.
The next wave of pain wiped the humor out.
She curled onto her side, teeth clenched.
It felt like something was clawing at the inside of her skull, looking for a way out.
A whimper escaped before she could swallow it.
Lucian's hand hovered over her shoulder, then settled, firm and warm.
"Amara," he said. "Look at me."
She forced her eyes open.
The room swam.
He was a black shape against the dimness, eyes catching what little light there was.
"You keep saying you want control," he said. "Right now, you have none. You're lying here hoping it stops on its own, and it won't."
"How do you know?" she rasped.
"Because I've seen this before," he said quietly. "With singers who stopped singing. With story-keepers who burned their own scrolls. With wolves who refused to shift. The old ways don't like interrupted cycles. They push back. Hard."
"Did they—" She swallowed. "Did they die?"
"Some," he said. "Some just… broke. Mind first. Then everything else."
Fear slithered under her ribs.
"I'm not—" Her voice shook. "I'm not letting it own me. I won't."
"This isn't surrender," he said. "It's triage. You pick up the pen so you can live long enough to figure out how to renegotiate the terms."
He was too close.
Too steady.
Too much like a lifeline.
She hated that she believed him more than she believed her own bravado.
"Just one line," he repeated. "If nothing happens, we try something else. If it eases, we know what we're dealing with."
"What if it gets worse?" she asked.
His jaw tightened. "Then I'll be right here," he said. "We'll deal with it."
We again.
Dammit.
She exhaled, shaky.
"Fine," she whispered. "But if this turns into some creepy 'the more you draw, the more the pain stops' situation, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' while I'm being consumed by cursed content."
"Noted," he said.
He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the new stylus.
The moment his fingers closed around it, her wrist twitched.
He held it out to her.
It felt heavy when she took it.
Hotter than it should have been.
Her hand shook.
The headache pulsed, like something was excited.
"This feels like rewarding bad behavior," she muttered.
"The universe doesn't understand parenting metaphors," he said. "Draw."
She swallowed.
Her tablet lay between them on the bed.
She tapped it awake.
The blank screen glowed, too bright.
Her wrist burned as the stylus hovered over it.
For a second she thought she would throw up.
Then, with a hissed breath, she touched the tip to the glass and pulled a single, tiny line.
Just a curve.
Nothing special.
No character, no door, no secret symbol.
A small, meaningless loop.
The effect was instant.
The pain behind her eyes eased.
Not completely.
But enough that she could breathe properly again. Enough that the nausea retreated from a roar to a mutter. The pressure in her skull dropped a notch, like a valve opening somewhere she couldn't see.
She blinked, stunned.
"What did you draw?" Lucian asked.
She stared at the loop.
"It's nothing," she said. "Just… a doodle. A comma. A… mistake."
He watched her face carefully.
"And?" he pressed.
"It… helped," she admitted. "A little."
The bond hummed, satisfied.
It felt like a beast settling after being fed a single scrap.
Hunger still radiated off it.
But the claws had withdrawn.
"For how long?" Lucian asked. "We need to know if it's a hit or a delay."
She almost barked out a laugh. "Great," she said. "Welcome to my fun new life as sentient withdrawal."
He didn't smile.
"Try putting it down," he said.
She hesitated.
Then lifted the stylus.
For a few seconds, nothing changed.
Then the headache stirred.
A small spike.
A warning.
Her fingers spasmed around the pen.
She grit her teeth.
"No," she whispered. "We're not doing this."
The spasm became a tremor.
Her hand shook uncontrollably, the stylus jittering above the glass.
Her wrist burned hot, then hotter, like someone had wrapped a brand around it.
"I'm not drawing," she gasped, voice tight. "I'm not—"
Her hand slammed down.
The stylus skated across the screen in a jagged line, completely outside her control.
She yanked back, horrified.
A messy, ugly streak stared up at her.
The headache cut in half.
Her hand went still.
Silence slammed into the room.
Lucian swore softly in a language she didn't know.
"What the hell was that?" she whispered.
"The bond," he said grimly. "Exerting… influence."
"Influence?" she repeated, hysterical. "It hijacked my hand."
"It prefers 'correction,'" he said.
Her laugh this time was more of a sob.
"I'm not a broken printer," she said. "It doesn't get to hit 'retry' on my body."
He didn't reach for her, but his voice softened.
"Try again," he said. "This time, you draw on purpose. Something small. If the tremor stops, we know intent isn't required—only motion."
"And if it doesn't stop?" she asked.
"Then we call Adrien and Mei and any healer I trust," he said. "And we treat this like any other injury."
"No one's ever treated this like 'any other injury,'" she said. "You just said people broke."
"Then we learn from them," he said. "And do better."
The fear in her chest curdled into anger.
At the current.
At the bond.
At herself, for ever uploading that stupid first chapter at 2 A.M.
At Lucian, for pulling her into his tower.
At whatever old story had decided she was the new pen.
"Fine," she said through her teeth. "Let's see how far this goes."
She held the stylus above the screen.
Her hand trembled again, not as violently as before, but enough that fine control felt impossible.
She focused on something harmless.
A circle.
Just a circle.
She breathed in, out, and forced her hand to move.
The line came out wobbly, more egg than circle, but it was hers.
The tremor eased.
Her wrist cooled by a degree.
The headache dropped another notch.
She sat there, panting, staring at the misshapen loop.
"This thing," she said quietly, "wants me to draw."
"Yes," Lucian said.
"And it will hurt me until I do," she said.
"Yes," he said again.
"And if I stop, it will take my hand and do it itself," she whispered.
"Looks that way," he said darkly.
Tears burned behind her eyes.
"This is not just inspiration," she snapped. "This is compulsion. This is—"
"Possession," he finished.
The word sat heavy.
Her chest clenched.
"Get it out," she said. "Get it off me. Break the bond. Uninstall the cursed app."
"If I cut it, you die," he said calmly.
"You keep saying that," she shot back. "Like it's a rule carved in stone. Have you even tried—"
"Yes," he said.
There was something in his voice that made her stop.
He met her gaze.
"And?" she asked, quieter.
"I told you," he said. "Singers. Story-keepers. Wolves. We experimented. We learned. The bond is not an accessory. It's an organ. You don't just… remove it."
She swallowed hard.
"So I'm stuck," she said.
"For now," he said.
"Stop saying 'for now' like you have a plan," she said. "You don't."
"Not yet," he said. "But we have data."
"Oh good," she said thickly. "I'm glad my suffering is statistically significant."
Her hand lay useless in her lap, fingers curled loosely around the stylus.
Despite everything, the part of her that had always loved drawing—the part that had stayed up late, hunched over cheap paper to get a panel right—felt the echo of satisfaction.
You drew, that part hummed.
The story moves.
She hated that, too.
"So what," she said after a beat. "I have to keep drawing forever? Or my brain melts?"
"Honestly?" he said. "Probably."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"I didn't sign up to be a firehose for your cursed river," she whispered.
"And I didn't sign up to be stabbed according to your upload schedule," he said evenly. "Yet here we are."
She opened her eyes, stung.
"That was low," she said.
"It was accurate," he replied.
For a moment, she wanted to throw the stylus at his face.
Instead she gripped it harder.
The bond hummed, pleased.
She forced herself to breathe slowly.
"In the courtroom," she said quietly, "when you… changed, you told me to stay back. Like you were afraid you'd hurt me."
"I was," he said.
"This is worse," she said. "Because it's not you snapping. It's not me snapping. It's something between us. And it doesn't care what either of us want."
He didn't deny it.
He looked down at her wrist instead.
"From now on," he said slowly, "we don't let it get to this point. You draw a little. Every day. Even if it's just circles and eggs and Zara's stupid jacket. You keep the pressure low."
"You're prescribing me doodles," she said.
"Yes," he said. "Consider it… therapy."
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
He met her gaze, unflinching.
"Then it will force you," he said. "And I will have to watch you break."
Silence.
Tight.
Brittle.
White moon, she thought.
Dripping ink.
The image flashed behind her eyes again, unbidden.
This time the ink didn't fall from nowhere.
It flowed from a pen in a hand.
Her hand.
The stroke across the moon's surface matched the shaky circle she'd just drawn.
When she blinked, the vision faded.
But the meaning didn't.
The current wasn't just demanding any story.
It was demanding hers.
Her line.
Her style.
Her choices.
Her silence hurt not just her, but something far older.
"You're enjoying this," she said suddenly.
He looked almost offended. "What?"
"Not the pain," she clarified. "You're cataloguing. Labeling. Putting it in boxes. 'We have data,' you said. You like having something mysterious in front of you that you can poke and prod."
"That's called survival," he said. "You should try it sometime."
"I am trying," she snapped. "By not becoming your—" she gestured vaguely "—script battery."
He exhaled slowly, reining himself in.
"I'm not asking you to perform for me," he said. "I'm asking you to stay alive long enough to make choices. Right now, the bond is punishing total silence. So we find a middle ground between 'scream into the void' and 'never speak again.'"
"A middle ground," she repeated. "Between script and… blank page."
"Exactly," he said.
Her eyes dropped to the ugly little egg on the tablet.
It wasn't her best work.
It wasn't anything.
Just proof.
Proof that the old ways didn't just watch.
They enforced.
She thought of all the fan comments over the years.
Update soon or I'll die 😭
Author-nim, don't starve us!
The story demands more!
She'd always rolled her eyes at those.
Now the story really was demanding more.
And if she didn't feed it, it would eat her instead.
She shuddered.
"Fine," she said at last, voice hoarse. "I'll… draw. A little. Every day. Harmless stuff. Under supervision."
His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"But," she added, "we keep looking for an off switch. Or a volume knob. Or… something."
"Agreed," he said quietly.
"And you don't get to guilt-trip me when I take breaks," she said. "Even if it hurts. Especially then."
"I'll do my best," he said.
"That's not very reassuring," she muttered.
"That's the truth," he said.
He stood, smoothing his shirt.
"For the rest of today," he said, "no scripts. No experiments. Just… keep the bond calm. Doodle. Sleep. If the pain spikes again, call me. Don't try to tough it out."
"I'm not a kid," she said.
"No," he agreed. "You're the only known ink-bearer currently plugged into the modern internet. Forgive me if I err on the side of caution."
He moved to the door, then paused.
"Amara," he said without turning.
"Yeah?"
"This thing between you and the current," he said. "It isn't ownership."
She snorted. "Feels like it."
"It's demand," he said. "It wants the story told. It doesn't care if you're comfortable. That doesn't mean you're powerless. Just… cornered."
"Wow," she said. "That's much better."
He glanced back, mouth tilt somewhere between grim and wry.
"I'm saying," he said, "that even in a corner, you still decide how you tell it."
She didn't answer.
He left.
The room fell quiet again.
Her head still hurt.
But it was bearable now.
She looked down at the tablet.
At the ugly egg.
At the jagged line.
At the small loop.
Then, slowly, she opened a new canvas.
Not to script an ambush.
Not to summon vases.
Just to see what would happen if she drew without anger.
Her hand shook at first.
Then steadied.
She sketched a hand.
Not his.
Not hers.
Just a generic one, fingers slightly spread, palm smeared with black ink that dripped down in thin lines.
Above it, half-faded, she suggested the curve of a moon.
White.
Blank.
Waiting.
The bond hummed.
The headache eased another fraction.
"As if some unseen force demands that the story continues," she murmured to herself.
She wasn't sure yet if she hated that force.
Or if, under all the fear, a part of her had been waiting her whole life for something to insist her story mattered this much.
She closed the file without saving it.
Not everything deserved to be a script.
Not yet.
But as the pain faded, leaving her wrung-out and trembling but functional, she understood one thing with cold, painful clarity:
Silence was not neutral anymore.
Silence hurt.
And the penalty for trying to go quiet was waking up to a white moon bleeding ink whether she wanted to or not.