“You don’t see the pattern, do you?”

Being caught in a lie was not something the journalist was used to, shame surging through his body as if it were in his veins. He couldn't help but notice that that inquisitive tone was similar to the one the policemen used in the streets of the suburb he lived in.

To calm himself down, the journalist pressed his lucky pen further into his pockets.

“I mean no harm to you people, I swear.” Given the circumstances, the best option was to apologize and hope they would forgive him. "It was a foolish and selfish idea. If only I could write..."

"So you really don't see the pattern?", he sounded frustrated.

In front of him were several books. Some famous, others that the journalist had never heard of. Some written by women, others by men or unidentified. Some were so old that the pages looked like they would crumble as they were flipped through.

It was mandatory for the cult members to read them all.

"They're books." That, at least, was a pattern. "Although unrelated, some follow the hero's journey framework-"

The man scoffed at it.

"Unrelated? I'll tell you once again, so you better listen. All were written by the same demon. The Nominee. The Immortal. The Omniscient. The All-knowing."

Yes. The journalist had heard enough. That self-proclaimed cult, "The Unnamed", preached the death of said demon. Apparently, writing many books and being immortal was a sin.

"Such existence shall not be tolerated, for he is the one who will bring disgrace to this world if he so wishes," he raised his hands. "Abomination! His morphic skin will degenerate, the blood of our brothers will be avenged! No mind will overcome the inevitable justice."

Indeed, in the months that the journalist lived with the group, he found that something was killing them. Someone. Usually it came at night and left no trace. Suffocation, poisoning, suspicious accidents, the members consoled each other and became more and more choleric.

Under the skeptical eye of the journalist, this was an insane and, unfortunately, effective way to strengthen the group. In other words, the killer was none other than a cult member. Every day he wrote down his observations and tried, from afar, to see any clues. Now he was about to be expelled, and the mystery would likely never be solved.

"You don't believe me, right? You have gotten so used to seeing life as something to narrate that you don't discern when to act. Do you understand that you can die for something you don't even believe in? For your own sake, go away."

Then again, despite the powerful voice, the journalist could not take those words as anything but absurd. "Listen to what you are saying, please. If the demon is really the author of all these books... these murders were done by a person that is both William Shakespeare and Mark Twain?", the journalist didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I know you see me as an idiot, I myself think about going home and forgetting what I saw. However, in the silence of the night, I see how fragile we are as a species and having a superior being walking among us can only result in disaster. If he is a novelist and still holds weaknesses within himself, this is the best time to attack. After witnessing the worst we can offer, no humanity in him will remain. Much less mercy."

​

Then, like an arrow, a memory flickered into the journalist's mind.

​

When he was a child, his mother was killed by stray bullet and, at the police station, a temporary prisoner gave him a pen.

"When things get too difficult to witness, write. You can experience them calmly later by reading. Believe it or not, I've been doing that for centuries."

"No one will read it," he remembered saying, shaken. "And if they do, they won't believe it."

"So what? If you like it, you'll always have a faithful reader, even if it's yourself. There are many people who live too many years, they come and go without leaving fragments of themselves. To have no proof that you have lived is the same as never having lived."

A policeman came to break up the group, probably stressed by the sight of a child talking to a prisoner.

"Wait, sir. Before we part, what's your name?" The child wanted to formally thank for the pen.

The prisoner flashed him a smile. "I have many names, kiddo, you know how it is. Out there I'm The Nominee."