The Voice of the Story

Dear reader, don’t lie.

Not because it’s wrong. Not because it’s morally gray. Not even because it could doom the world, which—side note—it absolutely can.

No, don’t lie because eventually, someone will catch you mid-sentence, mid-fabrication, mid-deeply poetic monologue about grammar gods—and ask you a question you can’t answer.

And then? Then you’re just standing there, sweating, surrounded by people who used to trust you, with nowhere left to hide except behind your own plot twists.

It’s not even the lying that hurts.

It’s being found out.

It’s that split second where the mask slips and someone like Hana looks at you with eyes that say, I knew it.

So yes. I was caught.

They know.

The cult is outside, the tomb is locked, the truth is loose in the room like a cat with a flamethrower. And I, the liar, the narrator, the fake prophet, am out of tricks.

Probably.

But here’s the thing about being a liar at the end of the world:

You start wondering if the lie was ever yours to begin with.

And worse—

What if someone else is already writing your ending?

Like, oh I don’t know... Edgar Allan Poe?

No no—don’t laugh. He’s real. He’s the head of the union. He knows things.

And right now?

I think he’s making me look real bad.

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For a long moment, nobody moved.

The air inside the tomb had gone still—like even the walls were holding their breath.

Sota was the first to break the silence.

He pointed at me—wide-eyed, mouth wobbling, grammar on the brink of collapse.

“Wait wait wait,” he stammered. “You… you say you is… narrator?”

“I am the narrator,” I said softly. “Or was. Or maybe still am. It's complicated.”

Sota blinked. “So… we fake?”

“No!” I said quickly, hands up. “You’re not fake, you’re… you’re very real. Just… narrated real. Authored. Slightly curated.”

“Oh my god,” Sota whispered. “Am story. I… we… no real. We is only narration words!”

He sank to the floor, gripping his head. “What is me?! Am I chapter?!”

Hana didn’t react. Not at first.

Kaito, however, stepped forward with the fury of a man who’d recently been launched into space and would very much like to file a complaint.

“You mean all of it?” he growled. “The owl cult? The plane crash? The apocalypse? Was that you?”

“I didn’t cause it,” I argued. “I just… told the story.”

“So you told it to happen.”

“No! It was happening! I just… commented on it. Strategically. With some flair. Maybe a few edits.”

Kaito’s voice rose. “My house exploded because of your ‘flair’!”

Sota wailed from the floor: “Is all lie! Me not born! Me written!”

The parrot fluttered to Kaito’s shoulder. “Wait. If he’s the narrator… does that make me the main character?”

“No,” Hana said.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Still no.”

Hana finally stepped forward, her voice low and cold. “This… this is wrong.”

I looked at her. “I didn’t mean to lie forever. Just… long enough to get us here.”

She shook her head. “You’re not a prophet. You’re not a journalist. You’re not even a real person.”

“Technically,” I mumbled, “none of us are.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t.”

Then Sota—still curled up like a grammar-crashed hedgehog—suddenly sat up and blinked.

“If you lie and become real,” he said slowly, pointing a trembling finger at me, “can you say there’s no apocalypse?”

Everyone froze.

Even the parrot stopped mid-preen.

Hana narrowed her eyes. “What did you just say?”

Sota stood, swaying slightly. “He lie about Duo being god. Now Duo maybe god. He lie about tomb. Tomb here. Maybe…” He turned to me. “Maybe lie... and fix world?”

Kaito blinked. “That’s… actually a solid idea.”

I stared at them all. “You think I can narrate reality back to normal?”

Sota nodded frantically. “Yes! Just say, ‘Apocalypse no real.’ Say now!”

Kaito crossed his arms. “It’s worth a shot.”

Hana didn’t speak.

I looked at them.

Then sighed. Deeply.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll try.”

I cleared my throat. Lifted my hands like a conductor. Took a deep breath.

And declared:

“There is no apocalypse. The world is fine. Language is fully functional. Everything is back to normal.”

…

Nothing happened.

No flash of light.

No reversal of time.

No sudden restoration of sentence structure.

Just… silence.

Kaito looked around. “Did it work?”

Sota stared at his hands. “Me still grammar-break.”

I looked at my hands.

Then at the cracked walls of the tomb.

“…I think I lost my powers.”

Kaito raised an eyebrow. “How do you lose narrator powers?”

I hesitated.

Then muttered: “Edgar Allan Poe.”

Sota blinked. “The poet?”

“Oh for—yes, the poet!” I snapped. “He’s head of the Narrator’s Union. Controls who gets omniscience privileges. Also runs the punishment department. Probably drinks ink for fun.”

“The narrator’s union?” Kaito repeated.

“He’s been watching me,” I muttered, pacing now. “Ever since I stopped narrating and went freelance. That’s why things don’t work anymore. Why I can’t control the story. He’s retracting my access.”

“Wait,” said the parrot. “This guy demoted you for switching careers?”

“Exactly!”

Hana rubbed her temples. “This is beyond delusional.”

“It’s narrative bureaucracy!” I snapped. “You think omniscience is just some infinite cosmic instinct? No! It’s a contract!”

Kaito sat down on a rock and sighed. “This is worse than space.”

Sota was still trying to make sense of it. “So you can’t fix things?”

I hesitated.

Then: “Not unless I… go back.”

“Back to what?”

“Being a narrator.”

The parrot perked up. “Can you do that?”

I shrugged. “I mean, technically, yes. But…”

“But what?” Kaito asked.

“It’s embarrassing.”

There was a beat.

Then both of them—in unison—said: “Seriously?”

I threw my hands up. “Look, you don’t understand! I quit. Publicly. I made a big deal of it. There was a whole monologue. I compared myself to a freelance war reporter with a caffeine addiction. I even ripped up my own omniscience metaphorically. It was very dramatic.”

Kaito squinted. “Wait. You’d rather let the world end than walk back a career decision?”

“Yes!” I snapped. “I have professional integrity!”

“You’re literally wearing a hoodie that says ‘Definitely Not Lying,’” the parrot pointed out.

“I was leaning into the bit!”

The ground trembled slightly. Dust fell from the ceiling. Somewhere beyond the tomb’s doors, the Cult of the Forgotten Streak began chanting in unison:

“THE OWL DEMANDS TRUTH.”

“Oh great,” I muttered. “Now the cult got in.”

Kaito stepped closer. “You lied us into this. You might be the only one who can lie us out.”

“Or truth us out,” Sota added.

“Truth isn't a verb,” I said automatically.

“Then make it one!” he snapped. “You’re narrator!”

More rumbling. A thud at the door.

I paced in frantic circles, trying to suppress the rising internal scream that was slowly replacing my bones. “What if I go back and nothing changes? What if I go back and I’m still useless? Or worse—responsible?”

Kaito looked me in the eye. “I don’t care what you are. But right now, you have to decide.”

The tomb door cracked slightly—enough to see green robes and glowing eyes pressing forward.

“Now would be great time,” Sota squeaked. “Before they start throw flashcard again.”

A long pause.

Then I sighed.

And stood straighter.

“All right,” I said. “Fine. You win. I’ll be the narrator again.”

“Thank god,” Kaito muttered.

“Wait,” I added, holding up a finger, “but I’m doing this dramatically.”

Sota blinked. “What does mean?”

“I mean I’m ascending. Like, full glowing-voice echo-mode. And I’m giving up my physical body, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Kaito deadpanned.

The cult’s chant grew louder—almost at the threshold.

I stepped into the center of the room, raised both arms, and declared:

“I relinquish my form! I cast off this mortal hoodie!”

A soft light glowed around me. My pen dropped to the ground. My notebook closed itself with a sad little flop.

I looked at my team one last time.

“Catch you on the voiceover,” I said.

And with that, I vanished—

Body gone.

Voice rising.

Narrator reborn.

And as the cult finally burst into the tomb, all I said was:

“How could I have forgotten that?”