The Reality Artist

"**

The world was dark. And yet, Zeke could feel something—something warm, pulsing softly within him. His body felt like it was floating, weightless, disconnected from the harshness of reality. But the pain… the pain was still there, echoing in his mind like the aftermath of a storm. 

He could hear voices, faint whispers at first, then growing clearer, more distinct. His eyes opened, but all he saw was a blur. Slowly, the shapes around him took form. He was lying on the cold concrete floor of the facility. The darkness of the room swallowed him whole, but there was a faint glow in the corner—an ethereal light that beckoned him forward.

With every ounce of strength he had left, Zeke pushed himself to sit up. His body screamed in protest, but he fought through it. The world spun around him, but the pull of the light was stronger than the overwhelming darkness. 

He took slow, deliberate steps toward the glow, and as he approached, he saw it—the creation he had drawn. The figure he had summoned to protect him from the Collector still stood there, now diminished but still intact, its form flickering like a fading star. It was a fragile shell of the power it had been, but it was enough to keep the Collector at bay.

Zeke felt a surge of relief. The world wasn't entirely lost. There was still hope. But how long would that hope last?

"You're awake." 

The voice was soft, familiar. Zeke turned slowly, his vision still blurry, and saw Nadia standing there. Her face was pale, her clothes torn, but there was a sense of urgency in her gaze. 

"Nadia…" Zeke rasped, his throat dry, barely able to form the words. 

"We need to move. The Collector will be back, and he won't be alone. We can't stay here." 

Zeke nodded weakly, pushing himself to stand with her help. His body was exhausted, every muscle aching, but his mind was clear. The fight wasn't over. It would never be over until the Collector was stopped. 

They made their way through the wreckage of the facility, moving cautiously as the faint sound of distant footsteps echoed down the hall. Zeke felt the weight of the consequences pressing on him. The creation he had drawn to save them, to protect them, was fading. Each passing moment weakened it more. And he knew the price of keeping it alive would be too much for him to bear.

The door ahead opened, revealing a dark, empty room. Nadia entered first, checking the surroundings. Zeke followed, his heart pounding in his chest.

"We need to buy more time," Nadia said, her voice low. "You're not ready to face the Collector again. You need to rest."

Zeke didn't reply, though he knew she was right. His body was far from healed, and the energy he had expended to stop the Collector had nearly destroyed him. He had no choice but to trust Nadia. 

But the looming threat of the Collector gnawed at his mind. The fear that even with his power, he wasn't strong enough to protect anyone. And even if he was, what would it cost? How much more could he sacrifice before he lost himself completely?

He collapsed onto the ground, his hands shaking as he reached for the spray cans he had brought with him. But his fingers trembled too much to hold them. 

"Zeke," Nadia whispered softly, kneeling beside him. "You need to rest. I'll keep watch."

Zeke closed his eyes, the weight of the world pressing down on him. His mind raced with possibilities. If he could just draw one more thing—something powerful enough to end it all. To finish the fight. But what would he draw? And what would it cost?

He didn't know how long he lay there, his thoughts drifting in and out of focus. At some point, he must have fallen asleep. But the sound of distant footsteps was always there, lingering in the back of his mind. 

Then, as if summoned by his very thoughts, the door burst open. A figure stepped into the room, silhouetted against the dim light. It was the Collector, his cloak billowing behind him, his eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory intent.

"You think you can escape me?" the Collector's voice echoed through the room, chilling the very air. "You have no idea what you've unleashed, boy."

Zeke's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't draw—he was too weak. The creation was all but gone. He was helpless. And yet, there was a strange sense of clarity in his mind, a realization that no matter how powerful the Collector was, there was still one thing the Collector couldn't take from him. 

"I may not have a weapon," Zeke said, his voice steady despite the terror rising within him, "but I still have the last stroke."

The Collector raised an eyebrow. "Last stroke? You truly think you can defeat me with nothing more than your frail imagination?"

Zeke smiled, though it was more a grimace than anything. "I don't need to defeat you. I just need to end this."

In a final, desperate surge of energy, Zeke grabbed his spray can and began to draw. But this time, it wasn't a creature, or a shield. It wasn't a force to be controlled. This time, he drew something simple, something pure: a line.

The line stretched across the air, glowing brightly. And as it did, something unimaginable happened. The world seemed to warp, bending around the line. It wasn't just a drawing. It was a boundary. A divide. 

The Collector's eyes widened as the room began to twist. The line became a wall, separating Zeke from the Collector in an instant. The air hummed with the intensity of the energy flowing from the creation, but Zeke knew—this was the last price he could pay. His strength was all but gone, and the line was the last creation he would ever draw.

The Collector slammed his fist against the invisible wall, rage flooding his face. "No! You can't—"

But Zeke, exhausted and drained, smiled faintly. "I can. And I will."

With the final stroke, Zeke collapsed, his creation holding the Collector at bay for the last time. He had done it. He had ended it.

And with that, Zeke fell into darkness, the final price of his gift—his life—paid.

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