Chapter Text
007n7 had been many things in his past.
Too many, perhaps. Things he sometimes preferred to forget, others that chased him like sharp echoes in the darkness of his mind. Some were simple memories, fragments tangled in the folds of time; others were open scars, marks that never closed no matter how hard he tried to cover them with layers of indifference.
Among those things, there was one that belonged to him in the deepest part of his essence: he had been a writer.
Not a writer recognized by prestigious publishers, nor someone who sought fame beyond the small circles of the internet. His was something more intimate, more visceral: writing because he needed to, because every word was a fragment of himself thrown into the void, hoping someone would pick it up.
He didn’t publish his stories in serious publishers. He didn’t need to. His thing was fanfiction—those stories born out of love, or obsession, for fictional characters and unreal worlds that served as his refuge when reality became too harsh to bear.
He wrote about everything he liked at the moment: distant universes, broken characters, impossible loves. On his account you could find a variety of genres that spoke more about his soul than any confession ever could: pure angst, the kind that tore you apart with every paragraph; fluff, warm as a blanket in winter; slow burn, because he knew what it meant to wait for something that never arrived.
But among all those stories, what filled that account the most wasn’t the tears or the tender embraces. No. What truly dominated was something far more carnal, far more forbidden: smut.
Explicit stories, where fantasies ran unchained. Tales that went from the most vanilla, soft and romantic, to the kinkiest things you could find on the face of the Earth.
Things he would never dare to confess out loud, but that poured out through his fingers like an unstoppable torrent.
And because of those stories, because of that shamelessness disguised as digital ink, 007n7 gained recognition.
Much more than he ever imagined. Followers who eagerly awaited the notification of a new chapter. People who commented passionately, begging for more. He, who had started as just another anonymous figure, had become someone anticipated, desired. A creator of worlds where rules didn’t exist, where pleasure knew no limits.
After adopting c00lkidd, nothing changed much. He kept writing, kept publishing. Sometimes he uploaded new stories; other times, he updated those he had left unfinished. He liked to imagine that, despite everything, there was still someone on the other side of the screen smiling because of his words.
Even after shooting himself, he found the strength to write one last time.
That act had been the final cry of a worn-out heart. In the notes of his last chapter, he made it clear: “I can’t take it anymore. I’m sorry. Thank you for reading me.” Simple words, but loaded with a desperation no reader fully understood… until it was too late.
Before pulling the trigger, his screen flooded with notifications: messages begging him not to do it, to wait, not to give up. “We’ll miss you,” they said.
For a moment, he hesitated. A tiny spark lit in the darkness. But it wasn’t enough.
In the end, he did it. He finished a story, and also his own.
Or so he thought. Because life, capricious as always, decided his ending would not be that one.
He woke, not in paradise or in hell, but in something worse: trapped in an endless wheel of blood and death, in that hell disguised as a game where survivors ran and killers lurked.
Still, an innate writer never stops being one. Even if words sleep, even if muses hide, the need always remains—that insatiable hunger to create.
That’s why, after a while, 007n7 began writing again. Not on public pages this time, but in a secret diary he found and kept hidden with care in his cabin.
A place where no one wanted to enter. Because no one wanted him. They hated him. And in a way, he understood. But that was another wound he preferred not to touch.
At first, he felt disgusting.
Every word he wrote tasted like poison. He knew it was wrong. Repulsive.
Because he wasn’t writing about fictional characters anymore. No. Now he was writing about them: the survivors, the killers. People he could see, touch, people he shared rounds and glances with—glances loaded with resentment or reluctant camaraderie.
He felt like the worst kind of trash. How could he fantasize about real people, with their gestures, their voices? How could he imagine scenes that would never happen, and that, if they ever found out, would make them look at him with pure disgust?
And the worst part… the worst part was that he never stopped.
Writing was like a drug, and he was far too broken to rehabilitate.
He even organized his diary into sections. Each name, a title. Each person, a chapter. Some stories were soft, others intense, a few he didn’t even dare to reread.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✴︎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The Spectre had found out everything.
Not by chance—nothing in its world was ever left to chance—but by the slow, deliberate whisper of curiosity.
It had begun as an ordinary night. The moon, that faint witness above the endless void, hung like a ghost’s eye upon the horizon.
Shadows folded over one another in silence, and in that silence, the Spectre wandered—gliding between the cabins of the survivors, peering through the cracks of their fragile little worlds.
It did not search for joy. It did not crave laughter. It hunted something far more exquisite: despair.
Fear was its language, sorrow its sustenance. Every trembling breath, every restless dream, every broken plea in the dark—it devoured them all like fine wine poured into an endless throat.
And so, the Spectre watched.
It watched them all—each trembling soul that clung to a fading hope. Yet, one in particular drew its indifferent gaze: 007n7.
The man was a tattered shell, a being stitched together with regret.
Night after night, he wept for a child that was not beside him, for a world that had abandoned him. The Spectre thought it had seen misery before—but this was monotony, dull and unchanging. A symphony played in a single mournful note.
How utterly… boring.
Even when it toyed with him—dragging the echo of his long-lost friend into the Realm—the reaction had been predictable. Grief, guilt, tears, silence. Always the same colors, always the same melody.
Until one night.
007n7 returned to his cabin, dragging the ghost of exhaustion behind him. He shut the door, and in the dim glow of a flickering candle, he reached beneath the floorboards.
The Spectre tilted its head, intrigued.
Something hidden. Something fragile.
A book.
The Spectre leaned closer through the veil of shadow, its form rippling like smoke against the walls of the man’s solitude. The diary was bound in worn leather, edges darkened by touch, pages heavy with confession.
And oh, the curiosity burned.
The Spectre entered—silent, incorporeal, a ripple of cold air passing through wood and breath alike. It came seeking copper, and instead found gold.
The moment its claws brushed against the pages, a new kind of silence filled the cabin. The candle flickered. The world seemed to hold its breath.
And then—words.
It began to read.
At first, confusion. Then, fascination. Then, laughter.
Not the laughter of joy—no, the kind that twists through the ribs of the damned.
Because what the Spectre found was filth dressed as longing, sin wrapped in human warmth.
Fantasies, written in trembling hands. Desires that burned brighter than any prayer for survival.
Lust, guilt, tenderness, depravity.
The diary was a cathedral of forbidden emotion.
The Spectre’s laughter echoed through the room like a distant bell. It didn’t understand the subtleties of human love, or the aching pull of affection, but the sheer volume of it—the tangled mess of pleasure and shame—was intoxicating.
How human. How deliciously broken.
It turned page after page, tracing every word like a surgeon admiring a wound. And there—
it found itself.
A description.
A fantasy.
A dream shaped after its own image.
The Spectre froze. The laughter stopped, caught in the hollow of its throat. It didn’t know what to feel—offense, confusion… or a dark, twisted amusement.
For the first time in eons, it felt something that wasn’t hunger.
Something strangely close to being flattered.
It would never admit it.
The Spectre shut the book with an elegant motion, the echo of its grin stretching across the room.
It could already hear the faint rhythm of chaos in its head, the whisper of opportunity.
Everyone was asleep.
Perfect.
The Spectre slid through the room like a wraith of frost, pages fluttering open behind it. One by one, it made copies—exact replicas born of shadow and spite. The ink itself seemed to breathe, twisting under its touch.
But it was careful. Oh, so careful.
Every name, every alias, every trace of identity—it erased them all, smudged them into anonymity.
The survivors would find the stories and wonder.
They would whisper, suspect, accuse.
And 007n7, poor creature, would rot under the weight of their curiosity.
The Spectre began its silent pilgrimage.
The Spectre’s laughter rolled softly through the air as it conjured replicas of the diary, each one perfect down to the trembling strokes of ink. Yet its work was delicate, deliberate—like a painter curating his masterpiece.
The stories were carefully edited.
The most lustful ones—those where fantasy melted into confession—were divided and assigned to each inhabitant’s quarters.
While the sadder pages, those soaked in guilt, death, and self-hatred, were scattered throughout the cabin, like dying leaves from a diseased tree.
The Spectre moved with the grace of a nightmare that had learned to dance.
It slipped through the survivors’ rooms, leaving stories like seeds of corruption beneath their pillows, in their journals, between the boards of their beds.
It glided into the killers’ chambers too, leaving the tales written about them—a secret mirror of their brutality and allure.
Each page was a whisper waiting to be found.
Each story, a blade wrapped in silk.
When the deed was done, the Spectre returned to the heart of the camp and placed a single copy upon the Winners’ Table.
It laid a small note beside it, written in perfect, elegant script:
“This was written by one of the survivors.
I hope you enjoy it.
— The Spectre.”
The ink shimmered faintly as if it still pulsed with the rhythm of the diary’s secrets.
The Spectre looked upon its work, the faint curve of satisfaction crossing its unseen face.
Somewhere, beyond the veil of sleep, it could already taste the future—the confusion, the horror, the shame. The trembling confessions that would come. The accusations.
The unraveling of fragile trust.
All of it, like a storm about to break.
It lingered a moment longer in the dim cabin, a ripple of darkness against the walls. The silence felt heavier now, charged, pregnant with the chaos yet to come.
And then—a faint chuckle escaped it. A sound like glass shattering in a cathedral.
It turned, fading into the void, its laughter echoing faintly as it disappeared beyond the folds of the Realm.
Everything was in motion now.
The first domino had fallen. And the Spectre—smiling, eternal— was already waiting for the crash.