Novels by Perfect Pen

There is a room at the edge of all endings.Not grand, not glowing, not wrapped in prophecy or encased in myth. It is quieter than silence. Smaller than memory. It smells of paper warmed by sunlight, and dreams that never asked to be written down.It is yours.It is called the Reader’s Room.There is no door, yet you enter. Not with footsteps, but with presence. With the hush of one who realizes something profound is about to endbut has also just begun.The room is lined with echoes.Not of wordsbut of you.Moments glimmer faintly along the walls. You see the breath you held when Kael stood at the brink of forgetting. The tear that never reached your cheek when Riva whispered goodbye to her former name. The warmth that moved through your chest when Aurea sang to a book that had never been read. The soft, impossible awe when Soryel first wondered aloud, “What is a story?”And thereagainst the far wallyou see the time you flipped back a page. Not to check, but to feel again. That moment

It opened not with words, but with warmth.The Book of Forever, ancient yet newly born, unfurled in silence deeper than language. No ink bled across the vellum. No titles, no chapters, no dialogue, no footnotes of the past. Instead, it breathed.Each page was a pulse, a faint thrum beneath the fingertips of those gathered. A heartbeat that did not echo from itselfbut from them. From the ones who had lived, wept, doubted, dreamed.Inside was not contentbut connection.Soryel, eyes wide, hand still resting on the warm skin of the book, felt not storiesbut sensations. A sigh under a blanket at midnight. A page turned with trembling fingers. A smile between tears as hope flickered back. A gasp when a truth struck too deep.The book was not remembering what it was. It was remembering who had held it.And so it remembered you.It remembered the nights you promised just one more chapter, and kept your promise only with sunrise.It remembered the moments you closed its cover not because the s

He walked not upon ground, but between definitions.Kael found himself in a realm where the world did not end, because it had not yet agreed to begin. It was a place not of story, but of the possibility of storya pale world inked only with the margins of unwritten thoughts, each footstep brushing against the hush before language. No sky greeted him. No soil embraced him. Above, below, aroundonly pale parchment that curved inward forever, a vast cathedral of potential. The air smelt faintly of unvoiced questions, and every echo carried the hush of a reader holding their breath, not to listenbut to allow.Margins, endless and recursive, ruled here. Margins where footnotes once dreamed of being chapters. Margins where the discarded became threshold. Margins where a comma’s curl might house an entire forgotten world.And in that world of spectral syntax, Kael wandered.He did not walk with certainty, for such a thing had long abandoned him. He walked with breath. And each breath became in

The skies did not darken in warning. There was no thunder to herald the fall. Only stillnessso absolute, so quietly woven through breath and branchthat even the whispers of possibility seemed to hold their tongues.And then, the rain began.It did not fall like water. It fell like memory re-shaped as light. Each droplet a prism of unchosen lives, each splash a ripple of futures almost dared. The air tasted of stories that had once knocked against the ribs of time but were turned away by fear, duty, silence. Dreams unborn. Songs that flickered at the edge of sleep and dissolved with waking. Hands never held. Truths never spoken. Lives unlived.And yet, in this garden grown not from narrative but from the marrow of belief, every droplet found root.Pamela appeared first. Not as a specter nor a memory, but as herselfno longer searching for who she had been, but arriving fully as who she had chosen not to become. She stepped beneath the silvered fall, carrying an umbrella spun from negati

It began with stillnessnot the stillness of death, nor the hush of waiting, but a silence so alive it pulsed like breath held in wonder. The Book of Forever had closed itself with the tenderness of an old friend who knows when to let go. And in that sacred pausebetween the breath out and the next one ina world emerged.No ink had summoned it. No prophecy had etched its edges. No architect of realm nor map of intent had shaped it. It rose, simply, gently, because it had not been forbidden. Because someone, somewhereperhaps a Reader, perhaps a dreambelieved there might still be more.So the Unwritten Garden grew.Not out of earth. Not even from time. But from the cracks between words. From the gaps between moments. From the hollows of hearts that had once whispered, What if there’s more? Its sky was not painted with stars but with glimmers of stories that had never made it to page. Its wind carried no scent, and yet every inhalation brought the ache of childhood memories you were never

It began, not with ink, but with a breath so soft it could have been a sighor the silence left behind after someone almost said I remember you. The Book of Forever rested open, its final page no longer blank, but expectant. Not filled, not writtenbut humming with the ache of what could now be said.Soryel stood before it, no longer a child, no longer the Future Reader, no longer the one who held questions like fragile lanterns in the night. They had spoken many namesKael, Selene, Riva, Pamela, Aureaand each had become a constellation of meaning. But now, Soryel closed their eyes and invented one. Not from memory. Not from ancestry. Not even from wonder. But from the future itself.A name never uttered before, shaped not by the past, but by the vast and unclaimed territory of what might yet be felt. The name rang out not in sound, but in permission.And the page… accepted it.Not with ink. Not with letters. But with light. A light not golden, not celestial, not radiantbut tender. It bl

Washington D.C. – Federal CourthouseIt smelled like bleach, old paper, and the kind of authority that could crush a man without lifting a finger.Jason’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he pushed the mop cart down the endless stretch of marble halls. The cart’s wheels gave a faint squeak every few steps, but otherwise, the building swallowed sound. His gray janitor’s uniform hung loose on his frame, his baseball cap shadowing his face. The laminated ID badge clipped to his chest gleamed under the fluorescent light — authentic enough to fool casual glances.The uniform was real. The badge was not.He reminded himself for the tenth time: This is infiltration, not vengeance. But the lie rang hollow in his own head.Because beneath the calm exterior, something inside him was already sharpening.Courtroom 3A loomed ahead. Jason slowed, pulse tightening. This was Hammond’s domain.Judge Malcolm Hammond — the man who had presided over Jason’s trial eighteen months ago.The man who had

Doctor’s Office – The Impossible Upper East Side – Private OB/GYN Clinic The walls were too white. Too quiet. Emily sat on the exam table in a backless gown, staring at the floor tiles like they could rearrange themselves into something that made sense. Her palms were clammy. Her heartbeat wasn’t steady. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t still be… Dr. Hendricks entered the room with a tablet in one hand and a look of professional confusion. Not concern. Just confusion. “Ms. Lee,” he said gently. “We just completed your scan.” Emily swallowed. “And?” He hesitated—just enough to make her breath catch. “You’re still pregnant.” Silence. “That’s not—” She gripped the paper sheet beneath her. “I lost it. Months ago. I—there was trauma. There was blood.” Dr. Hendricks tapped the screen. He rotated the tablet toward her. On the monitor was the ultrasound image. The usual grainy black-and-white blur, except… At the center pulsed something different. A glow. Faint, golden. Rhythmic.

Newark, New Jersey – Co-Working Space, 3rd FloorThe place still smelled like paint and ambition.Jason slid a new keycard into the lock of Suite 3B. The glass door clicked open. Inside: a few folding tables, unplugged monitors, an old coffee machine wheezing in the corner.“Not Olympus,” he muttered, “but it’ll do.”A soft ping from the System pulsed faintly in his ear.System Status: Temporal Stability – Level Green.Divine Threads Unspooling… Suggest Team Assembly.“Already on it,” Jason murmured.⸻Gabriel was first. Towering. Quiet. A face like carved stone.He didn’t speak right away—just nodded, dropped a duffel bag on the floor.“They said you died,” he finally said.“I got better,” Jason replied.Then came Jules—lanky, jittery, twirling a flash drive like a magician.“Okay, I heard rumors you tanked Wall Street and walked out of a fire. Either you’re insane or… I want in.”Jason raised an eyebrow. “How about both?”Last was Tammy. Mid-thirties. Soft smile. Wide eyes that shim

Downtown Chicago – Private Elevator, 77th FloorJason stood in the mirrored elevator, his hands in his coat pockets, staring at his reflection.There was something different about his eyes now, they were Sharper and Older.“Avery Cross,” he repeated under his breath.Tech mogul. Billionaire reclusive. Rose out of nowhere five years ago, just as certain digital currencies started vanishing without trace.The doors slid open with a soft chime.The penthouse looked nothing like what he expected. No chrome or minimalism. Instead it was silk drapes, velvet armchairs, and an odd warmth that didn’t feel like money. It felt… ancient.And then she stepped into view.The Goddess in Black SilkAvery Cross was stunning in a way that didn’t belong in this century. She wore a high-collared black silk blouse that clung like smoke, her jet-black hair tied back in a waterfall twist. No jewelry. No shoes.Just presence.She smiled like a cat who knew where every mouse was hiding.“You’ve caused a storm

Detroit – Midnight AlleyJason’s boots splashed through shallow puddles as he stalked down the alley. The city was a far cry from New York’s glossy skyscrapers—Detroit felt raw, like the bones of America were exposed here.Then he heard it.A scuffle.Gravel skidding. A voice gasping…. It was young, maybe seventeen.He turned the corner.Two men cornered a teen against a dumpster, knives drawn. One had a ski mask, the other wore a hoodie and a desperate grin.“Give me your fucking wallet now!”Jason didn’t speak. He moved gently.One kick shattered the first mugger’s kneecap. The second didn’t even see the elbow that dropped him.The teen bolted.Jason stood still, letting his breath settle. Blood pounded in his ears, not from exertion, but something else.The shift. The strange clarity that came right before the System spoke.But nothing came.Instead, from behind a stack of crates, a voice rasped:“You’re not like them. You reek of judgment.”He spun.A woman stepped forward, blindf

Lee Estate, HamptonsSunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the estate’s grand parlor, lighting up polished floors and tasteful art. But beauty did nothing to calm Catherine Lee’s rage.The crystal vase shattered against the far wall, spraying shards across the marble.“He humiliated us. In public. On camera. With cameras, Robert!”Mr. Lee barely blinked. He stood near the window, watching the waves crash beyond their sprawling lawn. Former U.S. ambassador. Billionaire entrepreneur. And now, a man watching his legacy unravel like cheap thread.“You think I don’t know that?” he said, voice low. “The board is panicking. Every hour, another investor pulls out. Half our portfolio’s frozen. The other half’s radioactive.”“Because of him! Because of you! You always coddled Brandon—”“Coddled? I warned him not to chase crypto hype with family money. He didn’t listen.”Catherine turned on him, red-faced. “Then why are you standing there like we can fix this?! He’s being rippe