Fuuko gripped the edges of her desk. Around her, the real world felt strangely thin. Outside her Tokyo apartment, the neon signs of Shinjuku buzzed with an electric hum that sounded suspiciously like the "Artifact" noises described in the manga.
She scrolled. The artwork in this chapter was raw—literally. Rough pencils, frantic ink splatters that hadn't been cleaned by an assistant's hand. It felt urgent, like the mangaka was screaming through the pen. Fuuko gripped the edges of her desk
In the story, Andy—the man who could not die—was grinning that jagged, reckless grin of his. He was standing at the edge of a collapsing reality, his skin peeling away into stardust only to knit back together in an instant. He was fighting God, or maybe he was fighting Fate, or maybe he was just fighting for one more second of Fuuko’s unlucky touch. She scrolled