The Reality Artist

"** 

The group found temporary refuge in an old artist's studio, long abandoned but filled with remnants of another creator's life: half-finished canvases, broken brushes, and paint-streaked floors. Zeke stared at the scattered materials, wondering if the artist had left their work incomplete by choice—or by force. 

Nadia and Milo wasted no time. While Nadia secured the perimeter, Milo began to push Zeke into understanding his power. 

"You need to stop thinking like an artist and start thinking like a survivor," Milo barked, tossing Zeke a battered notebook. "Draw something small, something simple. Let's see what it costs you." 

Zeke hesitated. His hands, still trembling from the last creation, hovered over the pages. He thought of a small bird, delicate and harmless. When his pen met the paper, the lines flowed effortlessly, as if his hands knew the shape before his mind did. 

The bird took form, and a soft glow enveloped the page. In a flash, it hopped out of the notebook, its tiny wings fluttering. But almost immediately, Zeke felt the familiar weight—a deep, draining pull that left him gasping for air. 

"Stop!" Nadia rushed to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're overdoing it." 

"I'm fine," Zeke muttered, though his vision blurred. The bird chirped once before vanishing into a puff of smoke. 

Milo watched with a detached expression. "That's your problem. You don't know when to quit. Every time you create, it's like peeling off a layer of your soul. You think you've got endless layers, kid?" 

Zeke glared at him. "If you're so smart, why don't you show me how it's done?" 

Milo's face darkened. "I don't create anymore. Not after what happened." 

The room fell silent, tension thick in the air. Before anyone could press further, a loud crash shattered the moment. Nadia bolted toward the door, pulling a compact pistol from her jacket. 

"They've found us," she hissed. 

Before Zeke could react, masked figures stormed into the studio. These weren't like the lone hunter they'd faced before. These were enforcers of the **Collector**, their weapons humming with strange energy. 

"Run!" Nadia shouted, firing a shot that ricocheted off the concrete wall. 

Zeke hesitated, his mind a swirl of panic and adrenaline. Milo grabbed his arm. "You want to survive? Create!" 

Desperate, Zeke grabbed a nearby canvas and frantically painted a barrier—a towering wall of jagged stone. As the figures closed in, the wall burst from the ground, cutting off their advance. 

But the effort was too much. Zeke collapsed, clutching his chest as pain tore through him. The world around him dimmed, and he could barely hear Nadia and Milo yelling his name. 

When he woke, he was lying on a cold floor, the room spinning. Blood smeared across the ground, leading to Nadia, who was cradling someone in her arms. 

It was Milo. 

He was pale, his breaths shallow. A deep wound bled through his jacket, the result of a blade too quick for even his sharp instincts. 

"No," Zeke croaked, crawling toward them. "No, this can't—" 

Milo looked up at him, a weak smirk on his lips. "Guess I finally ran out of luck," he rasped. 

Zeke's vision blurred with tears. "I can fix this. I can draw something—" 

"No!" Nadia snapped. "You'll kill yourself!" 

Milo shook his head. "Kid, don't. The cost… it's not worth it." He coughed, blood staining his teeth. "Besides, maybe this is… my way out. Better than the alternative." 

Zeke gripped Milo's hand. "You don't deserve this. Not for helping me." 

Milo chuckled weakly. "Don't get sentimental on me now. Just… don't waste this. Figure out what you're fighting for. And don't let the Collector win." 

With those final words, Milo's hand went limp. 

The room felt impossibly silent. Zeke stared at his lifeless mentor, the weight of his own survival crushing him. 

Nadia stood, her face a mask of pain and resolve. "We have to move. They'll be back." 

Zeke didn't respond. He couldn't. The wall he had painted stood as a grim reminder of what he could do—and what it cost. 

As Nadia dragged him to his feet, Zeke made a silent promise. He would learn to control his power, not just for himself, but for Milo. For all the others who had been crushed under the Collector's grasp. 

But deep down, he wondered if he could ever escape the shadow of what he had lost—and what he might still lose. 

--- 

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