The Reality Artist

"** 

The memory of Milo's final words lingered in Zeke's mind as he and Nadia made their way through the city. The cold wind cut through the streets, and Zeke's heart felt as heavy as the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Inside were the remnants of Milo's belongings—a sketchbook, a few spray cans, and a battered lighter with an engraving that read, *"Burn brighter, not longer."* 

Nadia led them to a safe house on the outskirts of the city. It was a decrepit old warehouse hidden behind stacks of rusted machinery, but inside, it was surprisingly well-furnished. Supplies were neatly stacked along the walls, and a single mattress was laid out on the floor. 

"We'll stay here for now," Nadia said, her voice subdued. "The Vanguard will send help soon." 

Zeke didn't respond. He sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at Milo's lighter. His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. Guilt, anger, and a gnawing sense of futility clawed at him. 

Nadia knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Milo made his choice, Zeke. Don't let his sacrifice go to waste." 

"I'm the reason he's dead," Zeke muttered. "If I hadn't—" 

"No," she interrupted firmly. "The Collector is the reason he's dead. Don't you dare carry that blame. We have to focus on stopping them, or more people will die." 

Zeke looked at her, his jaw tightening. "Then tell me how. Because right now, I feel like I'm just waiting to collapse like everyone else." 

Nadia hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out a worn file. She handed it to Zeke. Inside were photographs, maps, and pages of notes. 

"This is what Milo was working on," she explained. "It's everything we know about the Collector. He's not just after artists like you. He's using their powers to fuel something—something big." 

Zeke flipped through the file, his stomach twisting. The photographs showed grotesque creations: living statues, monstrous beasts, and landscapes that defied logic. Each one was marked with the name of an artist and a single word: *missing.* 

"What is he building?" Zeke asked, his voice hollow. 

"We don't know," Nadia admitted. "But we do know where he's keeping the captured artists. A facility just outside the city. If we can get in, we can shut it down—and maybe free them." 

Zeke's heart pounded. The thought of others like him, trapped and used as tools, ignited a spark of anger deep within him. 

"I'll do it," he said. "But I need to be stronger. I need to learn more." 

Nadia studied him for a moment, then nodded. "There's someone who can help. But you're not going to like it." 

--- 

The next day, they stood in front of a crumbling church on the edge of the city. The stained glass windows were shattered, and vines crawled up the stone walls. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of mildew and candle wax. 

Zeke followed Nadia down the aisle until they reached the altar. Behind it stood a man cloaked in shadows. His hair was long and unkempt, and his eyes glimmered with an unsettling light. 

"This is Elias," Nadia said. "He used to be one of us—a Vanguard. Until he… changed." 

Elias stepped forward, his voice smooth and melodic. "Changed? That's one way to put it. I simply saw the truth. Creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin, and if you don't learn to embrace both, you'll never master your gift." 

Zeke bristled. "I don't want to destroy anything." 

Elias chuckled darkly. "You already have. Every time you create, something else pays the price. The question is, are you willing to accept that?" 

Zeke clenched his fists. "I just want to stop the Collector." 

"Ah, the noble goal," Elias said, circling him like a predator. "Very well. I'll teach you. But know this: power isn't free. The stronger you become, the more it will cost you. Are you ready to bear that burden?" 

Zeke glanced at Nadia, who gave him a solemn nod. Taking a deep breath, he faced Elias. "Teach me." 

--- 

Over the next several days, Zeke endured grueling training. Elias pushed him to his limits, forcing him to create under extreme conditions. At first, Zeke struggled, his creations unstable and fleeting. But with each attempt, he grew stronger. He learned to channel his emotions into his art, to draw not just with his hands but with his entire being. 

One night, after an especially taxing session, Zeke sat alone, sketching aimlessly in his notebook. His thoughts drifted to Milo, and without realizing it, he began to draw his face. 

The lines on the page glowed faintly, and for a moment, Zeke felt a familiar warmth. But then the image began to ripple, and Milo's face twisted into something unrecognizable. Zeke snapped the book shut, his heart racing. 

"You're not ready," Elias said from the shadows, his voice almost sympathetic. "Grief is a powerful tool, but it's also a dangerous one. Use it wisely, or it will consume you." 

As Zeke stared at the closed notebook, a single thought echoed in his mind: *What will I lose next?* 

--- 

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