Chapter 47: The Real Loki
I didn’t sleep that night.
I couldn’t.
Not with the Author’s voice still crawling around inside my head like centipede legs, brushing against the walls of my skull.
Not with that vision burned into the back of my eyelids—
The rain that wasn’t water.
The older me.
The smile behind the chains.
I lay in bed, fully clothed, staring up at the wooden ceiling as shadows twisted across the beams like they had a life of their own.
The silence wasn’t peaceful.
It felt suffocating,
Even the wind outside sounded wrong. Too smooth. Like it was being looped.
Like someone had written "gentle breeze" into the script and kept replaying the same two seconds over and over again.
And the phone?
I hadn’t touched it since.
It sat face-down on the nightstand, looking as harmless as a dead fly.
But I could still feel it.
Like it was observing my every movement.
Waiting for the next scene to begin.
Morning came, eventually.
It always does.
But the world didn’t feel normal. It felt like a set that had been rearranged in the dark. The colors were all slightly off. The light was too soft. The air was too quiet.
And Nyx, of course, woke up like nothing had happened.
Like I hadn’t spent the night unraveling inside my own mind.
"Rise and rot, drama prince," he said, leaping onto the bed with an annoying amount of energy. "Don’t tell me you slept in that outfit. Again."
I said nothing.
Just sat on the edge of the bed, shirt still half-unbuttoned, staring at the wall like it might blink first.
Nyx padded closer, eyes narrowing slightly. "You look like hell."
"Thanks," I muttered.
He sat beside me, tail flicking. "You’re pale. Even for you. What, bad dream?"
I didn’t answer.
Not because I was trying to be mysterious. But because if I opened my mouth, I was scared something else might come out. Something that didn’t belong to me.
Nyx made a little noise— half sigh, half purr and plopped down onto the sheets like a loaf of judgmental bread.
"Whatever. As long as you’re still breathing, we’ve got things to do. The day won’t traumatize itself, you know."
He stretched, gave one last suspicious glance at my face, then turned away and hopped off the bed.
As he reached the window, he paused.
"You coming?" he asked.
I looked at him.
The answer sat heavy in my throat.
"...Yeah," I finally said. "I’m coming."
Nyx nodded and disappeared into the hallway, leaving me alone again.
I grabbed the uniform from the chair, holding it in my hands for a moment before putting it on.
It felt heavy.
The fabric was black, darker than night, smooth like water but stitched tight like armor. Every edge of it was outlined in gold. A deep, warm gold that looked old and dangerous, like it had seen things and stayed silent.
This wasn’t like the navy-blue coats the other students wore, with their clean silver borders and polished school crests. Their uniforms said discipline and tradition.
Mine said something else.
Mine whispered the model student. The one whom everyone should follow.
I was supposed to be the guiding light.
The black coat was longer, sharper at the sleeves, and fit almost too perfectly, like it had been made just for me, just for the role I was meant to play.
Right over the chest, where every other student had their crest, mine held a cracked golden star. Thick gold threads stitched it together, but it still looked broken. Fractured. Just like something that had once fallen and never fully healed.
I didn’t look at the mirror right away. I already felt it, the weight pressing down on my shoulders, on my chest. The change. Like the moment I fastened the last button, something inside me had shifted.
This wasn’t just a uniform.
It was a mask.
A promise.
A warning.
I was the North Star now.
Still... I walked over to the mirror. Slowly.
Not to admire myself. No. I just needed to remember. Needed to see how far I’d come — and what I was leaving behind.
And when I reached it...
I saw him.
That same pink-haired boy. The same one from a month ago. But different now.
The hollow, starved body was gone. The sharp bones under the skin had filled out. The pale face had some color. He looked... seventeen now. Like he belonged here.
His jaw had sharpened, more defined now. His cheekbones higher. His lips thinner, pressed tight in a line that never quite smiled.
His nose, slightly upturned. Not perfect — but striking. His hair was still wild, falling over his forehead in a messy wave of soft pink, and his skin had a strange glow to it, like moonlight filtered through frost.
But the eyes?
The eyes hadn’t changed.
Still cold. Still quiet.
Still carrying too much.
They didn’t shine like stars. They looked like they’d watched the world burn and just... stayed silent. They carried the weight of every broken street I’d slept on. Every rule I’d bent. Every person I’d outlived.
I sighed, my voice barely a whisper.
"It is what it is, Loki. You have to deal with it somehow."
I stared at my reflection, at the boy I used to be, at the boy I had become.
"You wanted this, remember? You wanted to know how it all ended. You loved this damn story. You cried for these people. You begged to save them. And now you get that chance."
I swallowed hard as my voice cracked.
"You gave up too much to go back now. So move. Just... move, dammit."
But when I looked down, my hands were shaking.
I was scared.
Yeah. I was fucking scared.
I had been scared since the moment I woke up in this world. Since I first saw that damn grimoire. Since I heard the word "North Star" and realized it meant me.
I was scared when I made those vows. When I walked into the exam. When I smiled and made jokes, like it was all some game.
You think that version of me — the guy who talks big, who fights without blinking — that’s the real me?
No.
That’s the mask.
The act.
The performance I put on so I wouldn’t fall apart.
Because the truth is... I didn’t want to age away five times faster. I didn’t want to carry chains. I didn’t want to bleed for a world I didn’t choose.
I just wanted to live.
Just once... live a normal life.
But I was never given a choice. Not here. Not before.
I dropped to my knees as I couldn’t hold myself up anymore. My shoulders shook as the first tear hit the floor, then another, and another.
Drip!
Drip!
Soon, it turned into a never-ending stream.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I looked back up at the mirror.
And the boy in it?
He looked broken.
Not weak.
Not cowardly.
Just... tired.
Tired of running. Tired of pretending. Tired of being the one who always has to carry the weight of everything on his shoulders.
I didn’t hate him.
But I pitied him.
Because I knew he’d keep going anyway. Even if no one ever saw the cracks.
Because I didn’t have another choice to begin with.