Naught to Null

Since childhood, I was convinced that a secret organization controlled the world from the shadows.

So, I studied obsessively, climbing the academic pyramid to get closer to them. I immersed myself in both Daoist physics and forgery. And why science? Because if such an organization existed, it would surely use science as its primary tool. Knowledge is power. The stronger I became, the higher my chances of finding them—or of them finding me.

And my plan worked.

One day, I received a personal invitation to attend an exclusive meeting for top scientists.

When I arrived, I realized this was no ordinary gathering of academics. It was an invitation from the very secret organization I had spent my life searching for. Yes, I had finally been chosen. My dream had come true.

But this organization was different from what I had expected. It wasn't about politics or economic manipulation.

It dealt with the paranormal.

A group dedicated to containing, investigating, and protecting humanity from anything—entities, weapons, artifacts—that defied the cosmic laws we had imposed upon reality.

During my early days in the facility, I heard legends about an entity imprisoned inside a book. Yes, a book.

The stories said:

"The most fearsome and powerful being to ever exist was sealed within a book. Why imprisoned and not destroyed? Because the concept of death was beyond its comprehension. It could not die. The only solution was to imprison it in a state that equaled death—trapped in the void between the lines, without memory, without a body… a perfect prison."

The place where the book was kept wasn't just a room. It was a deeply buried, high-security facility where thick steel walls merged with dim lights and pipes that siphoned air from every corner.

A balance between technology and the unknown—what some might call "magic." Here, massive screens displayed cryptic data, intricate devices whispered in hushed mechanical murmurs, and voices that didn't belong to any human being muttered incomprehensible words, as if coming from another dimension. But the book—the core of all these experiments—was locked inside a bio-resistant glass container, isolated from the rest of the facility.

After years of working here, I was promoted to oversee this very sector—the one that housed the enigmatic book.

The air here was heavy, thick with the scent of chemicals and old paper. Around me, researchers and scientists spoke in specialized jargon, conducting experiments in ways that felt almost ritualistic. But despite the crowd, the atmosphere carried an eerie loneliness, as if the space itself existed in another reality.

There were whispers.

Not from people, but from the air, slipping through unseen cracks, drifting between the connected machines. No one else seemed to hear them.

This place, despite being part of a massive research center focused on anomalous phenomena, felt like time itself moved differently within its walls. No one truly knew what happened behind the reinforced barriers.

The book—silent, motionless—was a perpetual enigma. Every time I looked at it, I felt as if something inside was watching me back, observing every movement, every thought. As if it were the key to something greater than any experiment we could ever comprehend.

It was always there, waiting.

Yet, it wasn't just a book. And it wasn't truly silent.

It was a prisoner.

Just like me.

I had watched it for years, locked away in a facility surrounded by iron, wires, and seals. No record existed of its origin—no author, no date, nothing. Just blank pages filled with words that pulsed like living veins, shifting, rearranging themselves, rewriting the same passage over and over again:

"I am inside a story... No, inside a book. And now, you are reading me… Nothing. No light, no darkness, no time, no life, no matter..."

As the head of this sector, my duty was to conduct experiments on the book—to uncover its true nature, or perhaps to find a way to exploit it against the anomalies threatening our reality.

Each morning, as part of my routine, I would read the first sentence aloud, letting the words seep into me as if they sought to rewrite themselves through my voice.

But today was different.

I read it again. And again. A hunger I couldn't understand gripped me. Each time I spoke the words, I felt something stirring—something approaching. The void described in the book was not just a description. It was real. And it was waiting for me.

I was obsessed.

So, I made my decision.

For weeks, an idea had lingered in my mind—a theory I had been too hesitant to test. But hesitation no longer mattered.

On the table beside the book lay another object—an artifact whose nature we had yet to decipher. Labeled Item-009, it was a strange, ink-like substance, black and flowing, yet never touching the table. It floated, suspended in the air, pulsing with an eerie rhythm. Some speculated it was connected to the fabric of reality itself, or rather… to whatever lay beyond it. But even that was uncertain.

What would happen if I combined them?

Maybe I would regret this. Maybe I was insane. But I couldn't stop myself. I needed to know.

So, I picked up a pen, dipped it into the black substance, and reached toward the first page of the book.

And then—

I wrote over the words I had memorized so well:

"I am inside a story... No, inside a book. And now, you are reading me."

The world exploded.

It wasn't pain. It wasn't electricity. It wasn't suffocation.

It was consumption.

Not of my body—but of my very awareness.

I felt myself unraveling. My mind stretched, turning into spilled ink, slipping from my skull, being absorbed into the page.

I tried to scream.

But I had no mouth.

I had no voice.

I was only… words.

I was dissolving into a sea of shifting symbols. My thoughts eroded. My consciousness collapsed into a vast abyss.

And then, I understood.

I had never been reading the book.

The book had been reading me.

In that moment, I saw him.

There, in the heart of the void, in the depths of a living darkness—an entity of words, breathing silence, moving without form, trapped within a labyrinth of ink.

It was not an image. Not a shadow. Not a soul.

It was a forgotten name, bound by the letters that connected its world to ours.

It looked at me—or perhaps I looked at it?

There was no longer a difference.

We were merging.

In the same page. The same sentence. The same letters.

And then...

A hand—if it could be called that—reached for me.

I did not resist.

I felt the ink seep into me, pulling me forward—or backward? I no longer knew.

The book crumbled. The words bled, the walls cracked, the void became an open gate.

I was falling.

But I was not alone.

There, between the tangled letters, he was.

Returning from oblivion.

Trapped between the lines, he had finally found his way back.

The ink was the bridge.

And my body—

My body was the door.

When I opened my eyes again…

I was no longer myself.

I was him.

At the moment of John's imprisonment, his consciousness collapsed under the transcendent seal—designed to contain, or rather, to kill beings that defied death itself.

His essence burned away, erased from existence.

The book—once a prison—was now blank.

Pure white.