Lord of Perverted Ladies

The ground moved.

Not shook.

Moved.

As if something enormous had rolled over beneath our feet.

The child standing in front of me didn’t react.

He simply watched.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

He looked like me.

Six years old.

Small.

Barefoot.

Holding the wooden toy car.

But there was something deeply wrong about him.

He wasn’t afraid.

He wasn’t confused.

He looked like he’d been waiting for me.

"What does it want?" I asked.

The child smiled.

"To go home."

"Where is home?"

He pointed downward.

"Here."

The ground cracked again.

A red glow appeared beneath the fractures.

Noah grabbed my arm.

"We should probably move."

"Agreed."

We backed away.

The First Reader raised his weapon.

"Everyone stay together."

The child laughed.

"You can’t hurt it."

The First Reader stared at him.

"What is it?"

The child looked at me.

"You."

I frowned.

"I’m getting really tired of that answer."

He laughed again.

"You always were."

Then the ground exploded.

A massive hand emerged from beneath the Last World.

It wasn’t made of flesh.

It was made of memories.

Hundreds of faces appeared across its surface.

People crying.

Laughing.

Screaming.

Living.

Dying.

Forgotten.

The hand reached toward me.

I raised mine.

"Stop."

Reality obeyed.

The hand froze.

Everyone stared.

The child smiled.

"See?"

I clenched my fingers.

The hand shattered into thousands of fragments.

For a moment, I thought I’d won.

Then every fragment became another memory.

Thousands of people appeared around us.

Some were versions of me.

Some were people I’d never seen.

Others were strangers.

All of them looked at me.

Then they spoke together.

"Why did you leave us?"

I stepped backward.

"I didn’t."

"You did."

"I don’t know you."

"You should."

"We were you."

The words hit me.

They weren’t attacking.

They were accusing me.

Every discarded life.

Every possibility I’d rejected.

Every version that had vanished when I chose something else.

They were memories of choices.

The Last World wasn’t a graveyard.

It was a place where my abandoned decisions waited.

The child walked through the crowd.

"They remember everything."

I looked at him.

"Then why don’t I?"

"Because you chose not to."

"When?"

"Every time."

He pointed toward the crowd.

"Every time you changed the Story, you left something behind."

"Every time you rejected an ending, another version remained."

"Every time you chose yourself..."

He smiled.

"...someone else lost their world."

I felt a weight settle inside my chest.

"Then I’m responsible."

The First Reader stepped forward.

"Not entirely."

I looked at him.

"Don’t."

He frowned.

"Don’t what?"

"Try to make me feel better."

"I’m not."

"Good."

I looked at the crowd.

"If they’re here because of my choices..."

The child nodded.

"Then I owe them something."

"What?"

"A choice."

I looked at the thousands of memories.

"What choice?"

The child held out the wooden car.

"Let them choose whether to disappear."

The Last World went silent.

I stared at him.

"You can do that?"

"No."

He smiled.

"You can."

I understood.

The Listener.

Reality could hear me.

But this wasn’t reality.

This was memory.

And memory had been waiting for someone to acknowledge it.

I stepped forward.

"Everyone..."

The crowd became still.

"I don’t know your names."

"I don’t remember your lives."

"I don’t remember the choices that created you."

"But I know one thing."

"I won’t erase you."

The Last World trembled.

The child smiled.

"Good."

I continued.

"You can stay."

"You can leave."

"You can become something else."

"Whatever you choose..."

"I’ll accept it."

The crowd began glowing.

One by one, the memories changed.

Some disappeared peacefully.

Others became doors.

Some became people.

Others became stars floating into the red sky.

The Last World began transforming.

No longer a graveyard.

A beginning.

The First Reader stared.

"You just gave memories autonomy."

I nodded.

"Apparently."

The child laughed.

"You really are different now."

I looked at him.

"Who are you?"

The child stopped laughing.

For the first time, his expression became serious.

"I’m the part you left behind."

"Which part?"

"The first."

"First what?"

"First fear."

"First memory."

"First choice."

"First desire."

He stepped closer.

"Before you became Adrian Cross..."

He touched my chest.

"...you were something else."

I felt a strange pressure.

"What?"

The child whispered,

"A question."

Everything went silent.

I stared at him.

"What?"

"You weren’t born."

"You weren’t created."

"You weren’t written."

"You were asked."

The words echoed.

Asked.

Not created.

Not born.

Asked.

"Who asked?"

The child looked upward.

The red sky split open.

Something enormous watched from beyond it.

I couldn’t see its shape.

Only two distant points of light.

The same eyes I’d seen behind the black door.

The Witness?

No.

Something older.

The child whispered,

"Your mother."

My heart stopped.

"My mother?"

"She asked the question."

"Which question?"

The child looked at me.

"Can something that doesn’t exist become real if someone loves it enough?"

My body went cold.

My mother had asked that.

And I had become the answer.

Not a son.

Not a possibility.

An answer.

The original Adrian had discovered me.

The Scriptorium had studied me.

The Story had contained me.

But my mother...

She had created the first condition.

Love.

I remembered her face.

Her tears.

The way she had looked at me after I returned.

She knew.

She had always known.

I turned toward the First Reader.

"You knew."

He looked away.

"Not everything."

"But enough."

"Yes."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because your mother asked us not to."

I froze.

"She asked you?"

"Years ago."

"What did she say?"

The First Reader hesitated.

"She told us that if you ever remembered your beginning, you would stop being afraid of your ending."

I didn’t understand.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

He looked at me.

"Exactly what it says."

The child walked toward the house.

"Come."

"Where?"

"Inside."

The house’s front door opened.

Beyond it was darkness.

I followed.

Noah immediately followed me.

Ryan sighed.

"Of course."

Marcus, Ethan and Daniel followed.

The First Reader remained outside.

I looked back.

"You’re not coming?"

He shook his head.

"This is yours."

I nodded.

Then entered.

The door closed.

Inside was my childhood home.

But this time, it was complete.

Furniture.

Photographs.

Lights.

The smell of food.

I heard my mother’s voice.

"Adrian?"

I stopped.

The child walked ahead.

"She’s waiting."

I entered the kitchen.

My mother stood there.

Not the mother I knew.

Younger.

Much younger.

She was holding a baby.

Me.

She looked down at me.

"You finally came."

I couldn’t speak.

She smiled.

"I knew you would."

"Mom?"

She looked up.

"That’s what you call me now."

"Who were you?"

She laughed softly.

"Always asking difficult questions."

"You came from the Last World."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to find you."

"Before I existed?"

"Yes."

"How?"

She looked toward the baby.

"You were already here."

I stared.

"Here?"

"Inside the question."

She walked toward me.

"You were a possibility."

"A thought."

"A dream."

"Nothing more."

"Then I asked whether that possibility could become real."

"And it did."

"Yes."

"Why?"

She touched my cheek.

"Because someone believed you should exist."

I swallowed.

"Who?"

She smiled.

"I did."

The room became quiet.

"So I’m your creation?"

"No."

She shook her head.

"You’re my choice."

The distinction mattered.

I understood now.

A creation belonged to its creator.

A choice belonged to the person who made it.

I wasn’t owned.

I was chosen.

My mother continued.

"But I wasn’t the only one who chose you."

She pointed toward the doorway.

The original Adrian stood there.

He looked young.

Alive.

He smiled.

"I did too."

I stared.

"You found me."

"Yes."

"You became my father?"

"No."

He shook his head.

"I became the person who wanted to understand you."

"Then why did you become Adrian?"

"Because you gave me your name."

I frowned.

"I gave it to you?"

He nodded.

"You said I needed one."

"Why?"

"Because I was afraid of becoming nothing."

I remembered.

The child.

The dead body.

The name.

Adrian.

It hadn’t been theft.

It had been inheritance.

I had given him the name.

He had given me the life.

We had created each other.

The room began fading.

My mother smiled.

"It’s time."

"For what?"

"For you to wake up."

"Where?"

She pointed toward the door.

"Outside."

The house vanished.

I opened my eyes.

I was lying on the ground in the Last World.

Noah was beside me.

"Adrian!"

I sat up.

"What happened?"

"You collapsed."

"For how long?"

"Maybe ten seconds."

I looked around.

The red sky was gone.

The Last World had changed.

The floating memories had become lights.

Thousands of them.

Some drifting away.

Others forming roads.

The child stood several meters away.

But he was different now.

He was older.

Maybe thirteen.

Then sixteen.

Then eighteen.

His body changed rapidly until he looked exactly like me.

The original.

He smiled.

"Now you know."

"Know what?"

"Why you became Adrian Cross."

I looked at him.

"Because I chose the name."

He nodded.

"And because someone chose me."

"Yes."

The red doorway behind us began closing.

I looked toward it.

"Wait."

The child smiled.

"We’ll meet again."

"When?"

"When you reach the final command."

"What is it?"

He stepped backward.

"You’ll know."

The door closed.

The Last World became quiet.

Then my phone vibrated.

I checked it.

One message.

FOUNDATIONAL COMMAND 05 AVAILABLE.

Underneath:

RESTORE THE FIRST MEMORY?

I stared at the screen.

This time, there was no name attached.

No target.

No warning.

Just one option.

YES

NO

I looked at Noah.

He read the message.

"What’s the first memory?"

I thought about my mother.

The child.

The original.

The question.

"I don’t know."

I looked at the two options.

"But I think I’m about to find out."

I pressed YES.

The Last World disappeared.

And somewhere far away...

In the real world...

My mother opened her eyes.

She looked toward the window.

Then whispered one sentence.

"He’s remembered."

Behind her...

Someone answered.

"Then we have to stop him."

My mother turned.

The person standing in the doorway looked exactly like her.

But their eyes were completely black.

And they smiled.

"The final memory has awakened."