WOLF HEAD BOOK

 WOLF HEAD

THE ONE WHO TAKES

         Author: Mariana Luzuriaga

Wolf Head

The One Who Takes

CHAPTER 1

In Your Mind

Charlie Nova is in his study.
It is almost one in the morning. Outside, it is raining.
The desk is saturated with open books, notebooks, loose notes. To one side, an overflowing container filled with papers torn out by hand. On the wall, a board covered with character names, dates, calendars, meaningless arrows. Many names crossed out again and again.
A cup of almost cold coffee sits on the desk.
Charlie runs a hand through his hair.
“I can’t…,” he murmurs. “I can’t think of anything.
Not this one.
This one, yes… but something needs to change.”
He stands up without stopping drinking his coffee. He takes a few steps and stops in front of the mirror. His reflection gives back the image of his distorted face. Charlie tries not to look at himself for too long. He looks away.
He takes a couple more steps, approaches the board, and forcefully crosses out another name.
His cat, Lolo, is lying comfortably on a small armchair.
Charlie walks over to him and crouches in front of him.
“What do you think, Lolo? How would the regent say it, huh?”
The cat barely lifts his head.
“Meow.”
Charlie smiles, tired.
“And what about this, Lolo?”
He stands up. He stretches his arms forward, almost in a theatrical pose. “Everything the mind is capable of creating inhabits some space. I am the wind and the force, the energy and the reason. My hand opens the portal,” Charlie says, feigning a look of utter seriousness. At that moment, the papers in the study begin to spin violently in the air. A vortex forms around the room. Lolo’s fur bristles; the cat jumps off the armchair and hides under a chair.

A violet, spiral-shaped light envelops Charlie and spins him at great speed. It blinds him, and the buzzing of the vortex deafens him. He flails at the air, trying to hold on as he struggles to breathe. He feels his body pass through a wall; he can barely see. Seconds later, he opens his eyes wide and realizes he is standing in the middle of an unfamiliar street.
The violet light still surrounded him, covering him completely. No one seemed to notice him. Little by little, the light begins to dissipate.

Terrified, Charlie hides behind a recycling container.
From there, he watches.
Several people walk down the street. All of them wear blue jumpsuits, black combat boots, and masks that resemble the face of a wolf. The female figures had extremely long hair that seemed to envelop them in power.
“This can’t be…,” he whispers. “There has to be a mistake.
This isn’t real.”
He watches carefully from his hiding place.
“Novawolf…,” he says softly. “The world I created for my book.”
He shakes his head.
“No… there’s a mistake. This has to be a nightmare.”
He thinks for a few seconds. Fear digs into his chest.
“It’s a crime to show your face here,” he tells himself. “They would kill me. They can’t see me.”
He remains hidden.
Two men wearing wolf masks approach the recycling bin. Charlie holds his breath.
“Wait,” one of them says. “I’m going to throw out these recyclables.
I changed it last night; I’ve got a new one.”
Charlie trembles with fear. The men walk away.
Carefully, Charlie approaches the bag they left behind. He opens it slightly.
Inside, there is a mask.
“A mask…,” he whispers.
Charlie takes the mask and puts it on his face. Although covering his face calms him somewhat, knowing no one can see him, he is still terrified. He remains behind the container for several hours, observing the behavior of anyone who passes by: how they walk, how they speak, how they move, whether they are alone or accompanied, what they carry with them.
Except for the fact that he knows it is the city from his story and that everyone looks the same, the atmosphere feels like that of a normal city. Charlie doesn’t want to take any risks; he is almost in shock and stays hidden there until he sees the street become nearly empty. Apparently, it is also early morning there.
When he feels a little safer, he carefully stands up. He begins to walk slowly, tense, as if each step could give him away. He is afraid that someone might speak to him, ask him something, or worse, attack him. He lowers his head, imitating the posture of the others.
He looks around.
Taxis drive down the street. The drivers wear wolf masks. The passengers do as well. No one shows their face. On a corner, he sees a police station: all the personnel are present, in impeccable uniforms and identical masks.
“I remember when I wrote this…” he murmurs to himself.
He wants to look for a place to stay, but he is afraid of making a mistake and being found out, of them realizing he doesn’t belong there. He keeps walking until he spots a hotel: a sober building, lit by warm lights. He walks around it a couple of times, thinking, until he finally decides to go inside.
The lobby is spacious and silent. The floor is dark, polished stone. The walls are decorated with geometric symbols, where the image of a wolf’s face is repeated constantly alongside other images, as if telling an ancient story. Behind the counter, the hotel staff wear white uniforms. All of them wear wolf masks.
Charlie approaches the counter.
“A room, please,” he says, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
The receptionist nods and checks a register. Another employee approaches and asks,
“Do you have any luggage?”
“No,” Charlie replies. “I might leave tomorrow… I don’t know yet.”
When it is time to pay, Charlie opens his wallet.
Inside, there are Novawolf banknotes; each one has the image of a wolf printed on it.
He takes them out carefully and pays.
The employee escorts him to the elevator door. Once in the room, Charlie thinks, “They turned out to be very useful after all… And to think I only created them as a joke.”
The room is simple. The floor is light-colored wood. The curtains are thick, a muted beige tone. The furniture is austere: a bed, a small table, a lamp, a mirror. Everything feels real—too real.
Charlie walks over to the window and looks out onto the street.
“I have to get out of here,” he says softly.
He takes off the mask.
He extends his hands in front of him. “Everything the mind is capable of creating inhabits some space. I am the wind and the force, the energy and the reason. My hand opens the portal,” Charlie says, He tries again. And again.

With the light on.
With the light off. He draws his cat. He draws his real study. He looks at the drawings, tears them up, and tries again.
Nothing.
He looks at the clock.
It is four in the morning.
He sighs, exhausted.
“I’ll take a shower and sleep for a few hours,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up in my real home. Either way, this can’t last much longer.”
It can’t be this real.
He lies down on the bed.
And falls asleep.
Two hours later, Charlie leaves the hotel, when the morning still has that bluish-gray tone that seems unable to decide between night and day. The building is left behind with the mechanical sigh of automatic doors, and the city opens up before him.
The streets of Novawolf were full of people, like any living city in motion: people walking in a hurry, others stopping in front of shop windows, some carrying boxes, others sweeping the sidewalks. The noise was constant: footsteps on the pavement, electric motors, overlapping voices.
The difference was in the bodies.
Everyone wore wolf masks. Some were smooth and light-colored, others dark, with pronounced fangs or lines engraved on the surface. The outfits were functional: work jumpsuits, warm and heavy, sturdy boots that struck the ground firmly. No one showed the skin of their face. No one.
Charlie walked slowly, observing. It was still impossible for him not to do so.
A few meters away, a couple had stopped. A stroller took up half the sidewalk. Inside, a baby was crying with a sharp, desperate cry—the kind that seems to have no air left.
The baby stroller was covered by a small dark cover that prevented seeing the child’s face.
The parents leaned over him.
They didn’t pick him up.
They didn’t touch him.
“It’s okay… shhh… everything’s fine,” a voice muffled by the mask said.
“We’re her baby,” the other added.
Charlie felt a knot tighten in his chest. The crying didn’t stop. The stroller moved slightly, pushed with care, but the baby kept crying, hidden, untouchable.
“What have I created…?” he murmured without realizing it. “Poor baby.”
“Hey, Communicator.”
Charlie flinched. He raised his head and turned around.
“Are you talking to me?”
A tall man, wearing a gray wolf mask and a worn jumpsuit, was looking at him and laughing loudly.
“Who else would I be talking to?” he replied. “Do you see anyone else dressed in brown around here?”
He laughed again.
“Only Communicators wear brown… and on top of that, that out-of-date style.”
Charlie lowered his gaze for a second, uncomfortable.
“They’re looking for you at the Lighthouse,” the man continued. “There are new Revealed ones. They’ve been there for over an hour.”
Charlie’s heart skipped a beat.
Don’t tell me…
I remember this now, he thought.
“Thank you,” he said, and without wasting any more time, he hurried down the street.
The Lighthouse rose at the center of the city as a structure impossible to ignore; Charlie didn’t even need to ask how to get there. White, tall, with clean lines and surfaces that reflected the daylight. It wasn’t a maritime lighthouse, but it served the same purpose: to signal, to announce, to gather.
At its base, there was a circular plaza. Above it, a massive screen. Microphones, speakers, cables hidden beneath the ground. Everything was designed so that the voice speaking there would reach every corner of Novawolf.
Charlie climbed the steps and took a breath.
The ceremony began.
“According to what these two citizens claim,” he said, reading solemnly, “they have revealed their faces to one another. According to the law of Novawolf, from this moment on, they will live together.”
The crowd fell into respectful silence.
“As tradition dictates,” he continued, “each person present must give the newly Revealed whatever they were holding in their hands at the moment they heard the siren that orders everyone passing through the place where a Revelation is being held to stop.”
People stepped forward. Some left coins, others small objects: a key, a bag of groceries, a piece of cloth, a notebook. Everything was given willingly. It was a gesture of good omen, and witnessing a Revelation was considered a symbol of prosperity. It was a great celebration for the community.
People applauded. The air was charged with genuine joy.
When everything was over, Charlie slipped away in silence.
He bought a simple breakfast and wandered aimlessly until he found a library. The place smelled of old paper and metal. He browsed the catalogs and requested several books. Parallel dimensions. Overlapping universes. String theory. Multiverse.Brane hypotheses, coexisting realities, folds in space-time.
He read theories suggesting that it was possible to move from one dimension to another under extreme conditions. Others spoke of anchor points, of observers, of consciousness as a key.
He also read the opposite: books that claimed other dimensions could not exist, that there was no observable evidence, that the energy required would be infinite, that the human mind confused metaphors with reality.
Charlie closed a book with trembling hands.
“I’m going crazy,” he said.
He couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t explain anything.
And the money from Novawolf was running out.
Days passed.
Hotel.
Coffee.
Streets.
“Communicator, they’re looking for you over there.”
“Communicator, there’s a minor announcement.”
Sometimes ceremonies. Sometimes insignificant events.
An envelope arrived at the hotel one afternoon with his salary.
Charlie held it as if it were something fragile.
“Well…” he thought. “At least I can survive until I manage to return to my reality.”

CHAPTER 2

The One Who Takes

One morning, while he was getting coffee from a vending machine at the entrance of a supermarket, a young woman approached him.
“Communicator, good morning.”
“I’m in charge of the Archives office. They need you today for a report.”
Charlie looked up.
“Angela?”
She frowned.
“Do we know each other?”
“No… no, I didn’t create you… I didn’t write you… no, I…” he stammered.
“What?” she said, puzzled.
“Sorry. I was thinking about something else" –Charlie said–

“But you said Angela.”
“I read it on the folder you’re carrying,” he improvised.
“Oh…” she replied. “Fine. Could you be at Archives in an hour?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll see you there,” she said, and walked away, murmuring, “I’ve never seen someone so strange.” Charlie froze. It can’t be. It’s her. I almost made a mistake.
An hour later, he was in the Archives office. Angela handed him a report and told him that he had to go up to the Lighthouse, that the announcement would be made from inside because it was too important.
“This is important,” Angela said. “There haven’t been any reports of takings for three weeks.”
Charlie didn’t understand anything.
“The One Who Takes,” she explained, “hasn’t been spotted. We believe the protection tasks are working.”
She handed him the papers.
“You just have to read it carefully so that everyone understands.”
“Are you going to the Lighthouse too?” he asked.
Angela looked at him incredulously.
“Are you really asking me that?”
She handed him more documents and walked down the hallway. 
That night, the Lighthouse lit up. The lights illuminated the square. The giant screen showed Angela’s face. The crowd applauded. She presented graphs, figures, names of citizens who had been taken by The One Who Takes. And then the image appeared. A video. A hologram. A face without a mask. Charlie froze. Through his mask, his eyes widened in horror. It was him.
On the screen that Angela pointed to, a video played. They were going to show The One Who Takes’ face again, and when the image appeared, Charlie saw his own disfigured face in the video.
The crowd screamed.
“Silence!” Angela requested. “As you know, we repeat this image so that you remember what The One Who Takes looks like.”
Charlie could barely breathe.
Angela was recognized in Novawolf for her investigations. She had been the first to propose the theory that claimed The One Who Takes was not of this world. Because citizens disappeared, but no one understood how or why.
The truth was different.
Charlie erased characters.
At first, secondary ones. New ones.
But one day, he erased a main character: a speaker.
And in Novawolf, that happened during a conference.
Those who had seen his face long ago and those who had seen it in the video feared him—not only because of his disfigured face, but also because of the disappearances.
Angela approached Charlie.
“It was a complete success,” she said, smiling.
Charlie was silent behind his mask and didn’t respond.
From the Lighthouse balcony, Charlie finally understood the danger he was in. He had invented Novawolf and its inhabitants for the book he was writing, but there were many things in this place and its system that he didn’t recognize.
Novawolf represented a great danger for him, and day by day he tried, unsuccessfully, to return to reality.
After the broadcast, the city did not descend into chaos, as Charlie had feared. Instead, something quieter—and far more dangerous—settled over the people: certainty.
They believed they had seen the truth.
They believed a proof had been shown to them.
And once a proof is accepted, it no longer needs to be questioned.
Angela was the one the people trusted because she searched, because she measured, because she named the unknown and made it controllable.
When citizens disappeared in Novawolf, fear usually took the form of superstition: a monster. A creature that devoured people at night.
Angela was the first to say otherwise.
She proposed a hypothesis that no one else had dared to articulate:
“The One Who Takes is not a being of our world. It is an energy, something above us. Beyond us. Not like the people of Novawolf, but something imposed upon us, something superior, supernatural, unique.”
From that moment, faith changed direction.
People stopped believing in rumors and began to believe in Angela.
What they didn’t know was, except for their belief that he was supernatural or superior, how right they actually were.
Charlie had always erased his characters in solitude.
One key. One click.One torn-out page. Most of the time, he destroyed them almost the very moment he invented them. His stories ended before they could even resonate. No witnesses. No memory.
But once—just once—he erased one of his main characters in front of others: the lecturer.
The citizens had gathered. They listened. They watched. They believed.
And then the ground beneath the speaker tore open.
From the outside, from Novawolf’s perspective, it was impossible: the floor itself detached and rose into the air, carrying the character upward, disappearing as if an invisible force had ripped him from the world. No trace was ever found. No evidence remained. That was the moment everything changed.
Because this time, everyone saw it from within. It was catastrophic. For the first time, the characters did not vanish in silence. For the first time, they saw him. They saw a gigantic figure descending from above. They saw a face.
Charlie’s face. Unmasked. Distorted, with half of it disfigured. A face they feared.
That was the day Novawolf truly encountered The One Who Takes. And that was the day Angela was right.

Angela stepped even closer to Charlie with professional calm, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
“All right,” she said. “As I said before, the communication was a success.”
She paused and softened her tone.
“Would you like to have a coffee?”
Charlie forced himself to breathe. To act. To belong.
“Yes,” he replied. “Let’s go.”
They walked together to a nearby café. When they sat down, Angela stirred her cup with a thoughtful gesture.
“I always knew The One Who Takes wasn’t of this world,” she said casually. “Have you ever wondered how life began?”
Charlie remained silent.

“Isn’t it incredible,” Angela continued, “that we are the only place in the universe where life exists, because The One Who Takes is not like us. I don’t think it’s a living being; it’s an entity, something superior. But Novawolf is the only inhabited place with living beings. Isn’t it… magical?”
Charlie stared at his coffee.
“What’s the matter, communicator?” she asked.
Charlie looked at her and said,
“Have you never thought that there could be life elsewhere? Another galaxy. Another universe. Another dimension. A place where beings live with their faces uncovered.”
Angela laughed.
“I insist: you’re strange,” she said. “It’s scientifically proven that there’s no life anywhere else in the universe.”
“And uncovered faces?” —she shook her head, smiling—. “It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”
She leaned forward.
“Can you imagine it? Looking at someone and knowing everything they think. Everything they feel. Their plans, their ambitions, their dreams, their lies… their crimes…”
Her expression turned serious.
“No. That cannot exist.”
“It’s already tragic enough that many believe they love deeply, rebel, and if the other doesn’t truly love them, they see everything inside their mind. That’s cruel. There have been cases.”
Angela lowered her gaze.
“That’s the magic of true love,” she said softly. “You can take off your mask, and the other will never see what’s in your mind… because love doesn’t allow it.”
Charlie listened attentively.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “there is another world where, no matter how in love you are, one day you end up seeing what’s inside the other person’s mind. And it’s not good. Then you leave.”
Angela frowned.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Charlie replied quickly. Then he corrected himself: “I mean… wouldn’t it be better to be able to love someone even with their flaws? Or to stop loving them precisely because of those flaws?”
Angela stood up.
“What madness!” she said. “I’m leaving, Charlie. You’re very strange…”
She walked away.
Charlie remained seated, knowing with terrifying clarity that he had to get out of that world by any means possible.

CHAPTER 3

The Book of Masks

Several days after understanding the danger he was in if anyone discovered him, Charlie returned to his hotel room carrying a book from the library he had seen the last time he went looking for books on theories about other dimensions. The book, whose importance he had dismissed at the time when the only thing that mattered was finding a way to return, was The Treatise on the Masks of Novawolf. Judging by its thickness, it seemed to have at least eighty hundred pages.
Charlie didn’t remember writing anything like it. He didn’t remember even inventing a library in Novawolf.
The book was heavy, with hard covers and signs of use. He placed it on the small table, sat down, and began to read.
“The masks of Novawolf,” the text said, “are not made of ordinary iron, but of a special alloy known as veiled steel.”
A metal that neither harmed nor contaminated the skin, that cooled rapidly on contact, and that muffled the voice and breathing of whoever wore it.
Charlie continued reading.
The book described the manufacturing process: no molds were used. Each mask was hand-forged, hammered while the metal still offered resistance. The text stated that the metal had to “resist” to demonstrate its quality.
He read that the makers never saw a face. They worked in silence. They believed that the metal retained a memory of whatever it touched.
Charlie turned the page slowly.
The paint was not decorative. The pigments came from ground minerals and ashes, sealed with heat. A small line on one of the edges of the mask indicated social function: visible work, surveillance, communication. They could be recycled, but those who did so needed a special permit; remaking a mask without authorization was forbidden.
Charlie thought about how strange it was to have an entire book on this, since he had found a mask, put it on, and suffered no consequences. He wondered if nothing had happened to him because he was human.
I didn’t write this, he thought.
The book also spoke about the revelation of the face. About how it was not only an intimate act, but a risk: seeing another person’s face meant exposing oneself to their mind, to their deepest thoughts, to what even the person wanted to hide from themselves.
Charlie slammed the book shut.
His heart was pounding.
He had written a story.
He had created basic rules.
But he had never detailed this. The book spoke of the history of the masks, indicating that they had been used from the beginning of time for at least two million years. He thought it was completely insane. He had written that history, and he was only thirty years old. He didn’t understand where such a book had come from. The explanation of the material and the mechanism by which the masks were made was excellent, but that some madman had put into the minds of Novawolf’s inhabitants that they were such an ancient civilization was ridiculous, funny, and also dangerous. Novawolf even had its own religion, and of course they believed the universe had been created by a wolf.
And yet, there was the book.
Studied. Accepted. Turned into tradition.
He lifted his gaze.
The room remained the same. Silent. Indifferent.
They don’t just live here because I created them, he thought.
They interpret. They change. They adjust.
For the first time, a thought struck him with unnerving clarity:
Novawolf was no longer just his creation.
It was a world that had learned to explain itself.
And that meant something far more dangerous than having lost control.
It meant that, even though he had written the beginning,
the inhabitants had started writing the rest. From the first moment, he knew he was in danger, but as he discovered more about Novawolf, things became increasingly complicated.
The hotel concierge called for Charlie.
“Communicator,” he said quietly. “They’re looking for you.”
“Who?”
“Angela, Archives Office.”
Charlie hurried.
“She’s outside,” the concierge added. “She said it’s not urgent…”
Charlie left his room quickly.
Night had fallen completely over Novawolf. The lights were low, cold, scattered. Shadows stretched between the buildings as if they had a will of their own. Angela waited, leaning against a railing, arms crossed.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” he replied.
They began to walk with no clear direction. The sound of their steps mingled with the distant murmur of the city.
“Charlie,” Angela said after a few seconds, “I’ve been thinking about something you said a few days ago.”
He barely turned his head.
“Oh, yes?”
“When we met at the café. I told you that once I went to a restaurant… I’m very sure it was on Sixth Street.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And you made a joke,” she continued. “You said: ‘Maybe it was reissued.’ Do you remember?”
Charlie hesitated for a fraction of a second.
“Yes… it was a joke.”
Angela let out a brief laugh, without humor.
“You know something, Charlie? Your jokes aren’t that crazy.”
She stopped. He stopped too.
“I’m working on an investigation,” she said. “Not official. No one else knows.”
Charlie felt a chill run down his spine.
“And there are days,” Angela continued, “when I feel like I’m going crazy. That I’m seeing patterns where none exist. That I’m forcing explanations.”
They resumed walking.
“But there are things,” she said, “that I can’t stop noticing.”
She paused for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully.
“First: the disappearances. They leave no traces. No mistakes. No gaps. It’s as if the world adjusts itself after someone is already gone.”
Charlie clenched his fingers inside his pockets.
“Second: the memories. There are citizens who remember people who officially never existed. Weak memories, inconsistent… but real to those who have them.”
Angela’s voice lowered.
“And third…” she paused, “there are places that change without record. Streets that no one remembers having modified. Buildings that seem… corrected.”
She stopped again and looked at him.
“Sometimes I think,” she said, “that we aren’t taken. We are edited. Relocated. Erased. And sometimes…” she continued, “I’m not even sure I exist.”
Charlie felt the air grow thick.
“Angela…” he began.
“Tell me I’m exaggerating,” she interrupted. “Tell me it doesn’t make sense.”
He took a few steps before answering.
“Has it never happened to you,” she said carefully, “that you read a text and feel something is missing, but you don’t know what?”
–Angela continued–
“That you know there was a sentence there," continued, “an important idea… but the text still works the same. As if it had adapted."
“Maybe,” she said, “the problem isn’t that we’re seeing too much. Maybe the problem is that we’re seeing from the inside.”

Charlie replied. "if Novawolf doesn’t break when something disappears is because maybe we’re made to be modified”

“That’s strange,” she finally said. “When you talk… I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
Charlie lowered his gaze.
“As if you think the same way I do,” she added. “As if you’ve been seeing the same things, but from another angle.”
She exhaled slowly.
“Maybe that’s why I looked for you,” she admitted. “Maybe I’m not crazy.”
“Maybe I just needed to talk to someone who doesn’t cling so much to everything being stable.”
They looked at each other. Two figures in the night, covered in metal, united by an idea, by a sense.
“Charlie,” Angela said, “would you help me with the investigation?”
He didn’t respond immediately.
But in his silence, she knew he already had.

CHAPTER 4

The Archive

Two days later, Charlie found a folded note under the door of his hotel room.
It had no signature.
Just a time and a place.
Central Archive – Lower Level.
After the second siren.
Charlie read the paper several times.
He didn’t ask anything.
That night, the city was quieter than usual. Not empty: restrained. As if Novawolf was breathing carefully. When he arrived at the Archives building, the exterior lights were off. Only a faint strip illuminated the side entrance.
The door opened before he could knock.
Angela was waiting on the other side. “Hurry,” Angela said.
She closed the door carefully and activated a panel that sealed the access. The sound was soft, but final.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Charlie murmured.
“Exactly,” she replied. “That’s why we are.”
They descended a narrow staircase. The air grew colder. The lower level of the Archive wasn’t designed for visitors: no signs, no colors, no polished surfaces. Only metal, shelves, and unmarked boxes.
“This is where they keep what doesn’t fit,” Angela said. “Discarded reports. Incomplete records. Data that doesn’t match the official version.”
She stopped in front of a table and activated an opaque screen.
“Look at this.”
Names appeared. Dates. Coordinates.
“These are citizens reported as ‘taken,’” she explained. “But notice something."
“The dates…” She said. “They don’t follow a logical progression.”
 "It’s not a hunting pattern. It’s…”– she searched for the word,– “…correction.” she said. Charlie closed his eyes for a second.
"Perhaps nothing is erased at random, but rather what breaks coherence." Charlie said.
Angela looked at him as if he had finished her sentence.
“That’s what I thought,” she whispered. “And there’s more.”
She switched files. Audio recordings appeared.
“These are testimonies from people who were close to a ‘taking.’ Listen carefully.”
A distorted voice filled the space.
“…I didn’t see anything. I just felt as if someone had rewound a sentence inside my head…”
Another recording.
“…it’s strange… it doesn’t hurt… it’s like it was never there…”
Angela turned off the audio.
“No one talks about violence,” she said. “No one talks about struggle.
They talk about logical absence.”
Charlie placed both hands on the table.
“Angela,” he said slowly, 

"Maybe Sometimes things are modified in order to coexist." 

She looked up. 

“If this is true,” Angela said, "So everything we do…order, laws, masks… are only attempts to maintain a stable form, the one that suits us best, even if someone disappears."

“Yes,” Charlie said. “Like margins. Like punctuation.”

Angela almost smiled. A tense smile.
“When you talk like that,” she said, “I feel like you’re describing something I’ve always known, but never been able to say out loud.”
She moved to another shelf and pulled out a small box.
“This is what frightens me the most,” she said.
She opened it.
Inside was a common object: a metal spoon.
“It was found after a taking,” she explained. “The rest of the environment adjusted.”
“The table, the floor, the records…
But this didn’t.”
Charlie took it carefully.
“An editing error,” he murmured.
Angela stared at him.
“Charlie… if someone is editing us, then they can do it again.
And someone else has already realized this.”
“Who?” he asked.
Angela took a moment before answering.
“The Regent of the Lighthouse,” she said at last.
“He doesn’t know what we are.
But he knows the order is in danger.” She put the box away.
“If he reaches the same conclusion we have,” she continued, “he won’t look for the truth.
He’ll try to fix Novawolf.”
A shiver ran through Charlie.
“Fix it how?”
Angela shook her head.
“I don’t know yet.
But any attempt to immobilize us…
could destroy us.”
They looked at each other.
No longer as investigator and communicator.
But as two beings who had seen too much.
“This isn’t just an investigation,” Charlie said.
“It’s a countdown.”
Angela nodded.
“That’s why I brought you,” she replied.
“Because you’re the only one who understands this…
as if you’d been on the other side.”
Charlie said nothing.
But in that silence, Angela felt—for the first time—something dangerous and familiar: trust.

CHAPTER 5

The Anchor

The next day, Angela discovered that her access had been revoked.
The Central Office panel did not respond to her code.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Behind the opaque glass, the lights were still on. Her desk was there. Her place. Her orderly, verifiable life.
“Restricted access,” the automated voice said. “Superior authorization required.”
Angela rested her hand against the cold surface.
This was not an error.
It was a message.
The Regent of the Lighthouse already knew.
Hours later, Angela found Charlie in the only place where the cameras failed intermittently: the covered passage connecting the old transit buildings, an area that had never been fully “updated.”
She paced back and forth. Her hands were shaking.
“I can’t get back in,” she said as soon as she saw him. “They denied my access. Archives, credentials, field clearance. Everything.”
Charlie didn’t speak right away. He approached slowly, as if Angela were something fragile that could shatter with a poorly chosen word.
“That means they believe you,” he said.
Angela laughed, but it was an empty laugh.
“Or they want to silence me before I can prove it completely.
Charlie, I keep finding things. People no one remembers ever knowing. Records that change when I look at them again.
Today I saw a street… an entire street that wasn’t there a few months ago.”
“Angela,” he said gently. “Look at me.” She raised her eyes.
“I’m afraid,” she admitted. “Not just of being taken from here forever like the others.
Sometimes I’m afraid of being right. That we’re not real.
That I…” She hesitated for a moment. “That I’m just a poorly saved version of something that no longer exists.”
Charlie stepped closer.
“Listen to me,” he said. “You are real. Maybe things that break coherence are just falling into place, nothing more...
Angela shook her head.
“But if they can take us—”
“Then they can also modify us,” She said. “Make us worse. Make us better.
And that means can't decide anything”
The silence between them changed. More intimate. More dangerous.
“The Regent has been asking about you, Charlie,” Angela said. “Not directly.
But he’s watching anyone who stops to think too much. He knows you’re in contact with me.”
“He needs everything to stay the same,” Angela said.
“If people find out we’re not taken… that we’re edited…
the order collapses.
And without order, he is nothing.”
“If they declare me unstable,” Angela said, “if they say my mind isn’t working properly… no one will listen to me.”
Charlie held her gaze.
“I will.”
That was enough.
Angela took a deep breath, as if only then she could truly do so. “When I’m with you,” she said, “I feel like I don’t have to prove anything. Like I don’t have to convince the world that I exist.”
Charlie lowered his voice.
“Because you exist, Angela.”
She took a step toward him. They didn’t touch. They didn’t need to.
“This is a terrible idea,” Angela whispered.
“Falling in love right now.”
Charlie sketched a small, sad smile.
“The worst ideas are usually the only honest ones.”
Above the passage, a light turned on.
It didn’t illuminate them.
It marked them.
Angela felt it.
“They’re watching us,” she said.
Charlie nodded.
“Yes.
And they’ve already confirmed which side you’re on.”
Angela drew in a breath.
“That’s right,” she said.
“Even if they erase me.”
Charlie didn’t answer with words.
He simply stayed there, facing her, like a line that refused to disappear.
And somewhere in the Lighthouse, the Regent understood something he could not allow:
Angela was no longer alone.
Charlie walked Angela home. They entered the living room and sat down. The room was dimly lit.
They didn’t want anyone to see that there were inhabitants inside.
They had talked for hours.
About sealed archives.
About erased names.
About offices she was no longer allowed to enter.
About the Regent.
“I’m not paranoid,” Angela said for the third time. “I know it. I feel it. People disappear and no one remembers they ever existed. Records change. Places appear that weren’t there before and no one remembers building them.”
She looked straight at him.
“And you… you say things no one else says.”
Charlie didn’t respond.
Angela took a deep breath.
“I’m tired of measuring everything. Of proving everything. Of hiding behind all this…”
“The reason they permanently denied me access to the Archives office is because I discovered something and copied it. They’re not sure it was me, but they suspect it, Charlie—and if they confirm it, I don’t know what will happen.”
Then she pulled a small, elongated object made of dark metal from inside her coat.
“This shouldn’t exist,” Charlie said, studying it carefully. He recognized the device instantly. In Novawolf, they were used only for critical backup copies—those that could not remain inside the central system.
“What did you do, Angela?”
She looked at him. Not with fear. With determination.
“I found a file in a section that doesn’t appear in any index. It had no author. No date. Just a technical name.” She paused. “Anchor Protocol.”
Charlie felt a weight press against his chest.
Someone activated the device. Its surface projected a series of graphics suspended in the air—lines, nodes, overlapping layers. The language was precise, cold, almost clinical.
“Look,” she said. “This isn’t a theory. It’s an operational report. The file described Novawolf not as an autonomous world, but as a dependent system—a structure sustained by something external." She said.
Every coherent environment requires a stable point of reference.
In the absence of its own origin, the system must anchor itself to a primary reality.
Angela read aloud, slowly, as if each word might collapse if rushed.
“‘Primary reality’…” Charlie  murmured. 

“They don’t say which one. Only that it exists.” Angela said.
She moved to the next section. A diagram showed two overlapping planes: one solid, defined; the other unstable, as if vibrating.
“This is us,” she said, pointing to the unstable plane. “And this…” She moved her finger to the other. “This is what we’re tied to.”
“Angela…Wait a second. I need to explain something I read about this Charlie said.

"Charlie, please, let me continue." She said.
"The anchor guarantees temporal continuity, collective memory, and identity stability.
Loss of the anchor implies progressive system collapse."
Do you understand what does that mean?” she asked.
She opened a sublevel of the report. The language was more direct.
“Loss of records. Spontaneous rewriting. Disappearances.” She looked at him.
“We wouldn’t cross over to another place." she said. We wouldn’t survive. We would simply… stop being.”
The silence grew dense.
“And there’s more,” Angela said. “The file warns about something specific.”
She read:
The anchor cannot be relocated without destroying both planes.
Only the originating element can be displaced without structural damage.
She looked at him then—truly looked at him.
“We’re not taken,” she whispered. “We’re edited. Corrected. Eliminated when we don’t fit.”
Her voice trembled.
“Do you realize what that means? We’re not real. Maybe we only… exist while someone holds us in place.”
Charlie realized he could no longer escape.
“Angela,” he said gently, “maybe the anchor isn’t a universe—or something invincible.”
She held her breath.
“Then what is it?”
Charlie looked at her the way one looks at something they love—and are about to lose.
She fell silent, and then Charlie noticed Angela staring at him, her hands moving to the sides of her mask.
Charlie stood up abruptly.
“Angela, no—”
But it was already too late.
The metal released with a soft sound, almost intimate.
A mechanical sigh.
Angela held the mask for a second between her hands…
and then placed it on the table.
Her face was there. She was beautiful. Charlie had never known her face; he had never described her appearance in the book. He had no idea it would be like this—so real. Vulnerable. Alive.
She was just a woman who, for the first time, was completely exposed.
Charlie looked at her as if he were witnessing a miracle…
and a catastrophe at the same time.

Charlie stood up.
He took a step closer.
“Now you.”
Charlie did not move his hands.
“I can’t.”
The sentence was devastating for Angela.
Angela frowned.
“You don’t want to…? I thought that you and I—”
“It’s not that simple.”
She took another step closer. Too close.
“I trust you, Charlie. I told you things I never told anyone. I took a risk.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
“I thought we were the same.”
Angela stepped back.
“I understand,” she said, holding the mask in her hands. “I shouldn’t have done this.”
She turned away.
Charlie reacted on impulse.
“Wait!”
He took her hand.
“Please, listen to me.”
She didn’t want to look at him.
“Then tell me the truth.”
Charlie closed his eyes.
“I have a mark,” he said. “On half of my face.”
Angela turned slowly.
“A… mark?”
“A burn.”
The word sounded wrong.
Out of place.
Angela shook her head.
“That doesn’t exist.”
“It does.”
"No," she insisted. "It can't exist. Fires don't exist in Novawolf; they are just a myth. I know we're investigating unusual things, but the existence of fire is only a myth, Charlie. You don't have to justify not loving me...", or not returning my feelings, by showing me your face. You don’t have to lie to justify it.”
“If something like that happened, everything would disappear. Everything that exists contains—”
She stopped.
“Contains fibers. Structure. Sensitive material. Like paper.”
Charlie looked at her.
And he knew there was no turning back.
“It didn’t happen here.”
Angela froze.
“What…?”
“It didn’t happen in Novawolf,” he repeated. “It happened somewhere else. When I was a baby.”
She looked at him as if she were watching a logical error walk in front of her.
“That’s impossible.”
Charlie took a step back.
Angela approached slowly and placed her hands on the edges of Charlie’s mask. He held her hand and said,
“What you’re about to see won’t be good, but I can explain everything. Try not to run. Try not to scream. I don’t want to expose you to danger if they discover me here with you, Angela. None of this should exist.”
Angela slowly removed his mask.
Not suddenly.
Not as a romantic act.
The burn crossed his face, half of it completely disfigured, making him unmistakable to Angela—and to anyone who had seen the broadcast images.
Real.
Impossible to fake.
Skin that did not obey the rules.
Angela stared at him in shock for several seconds. 

Charlie asked her not to be afraid.
“You…” she whispered. “You… you’re not—”
“No,” Charlie said. “I’m not what they think. They call me The One Who Takes, but I’m not that. I didn’t do it because I wanted to. I’m not what you think either—a superior being or something like that. I’m not that. I’m from somewhere else. I know it’s not easy for you to confirm your suspicions. I’m from somewhere else, but I don’t have powers. I’m none of that. I want to return to where I belong, for the good of all Novawolf—but above all, for your good, Angela. You’re the one who truly matters to me.”
He paused.
“I’m Charlie Nova. I wrote you.”
“I invented you. I created Novawolf—its inhabitants, its rules, its masks and the Lighthouse, its system, its lights, its buildings, its night. But there are many things I didn’t create that still exist. You—and the rest of Novawolf’s inhabitants—evolved in some way, for some reason. You even invented your own origins. There are many things I didn’t create.”
The world fractured without a sound. “You’ve broken all the rules,” Charlie said. “And somehow, you’ve managed incredibly well.”
He lifted the coffee cup resting on the table, as if to illustrate his point.
“Do you think this is normal coffee?” he asked. “No. Nothing here is what it seems.”
“The rain you feel doesn’t wet you. The plants you see don’t grow. The wolves… yes, real wolves exist in my world, but here they’re only mythology. If you got close to a real one, it would attack you. Everything you believe to be real here… is an echo. An interpretation.”
“Everything is made of paper. Of symbols.”
Angela looked at him, stunned.
“And the masks?” she asked. “If there are so many real species, why wolves?”
Charlie smiled sadly.
“I chose wolves because they represent survival. Independence. But also because… in my world, if you have a wound, people see you as something strange. Imagine looking different—looking different as a child. It’s cruel. The masks… are a desire buried deep inside me: equality. Covering my appearance. Being accepted.”
“So that the face does not reveal what the heart is afraid to show.”
Angela listened, understanding everything.
“Charlie…” she whispered, and he continued.
“I’m a renowned writer in my world but no one knows my face. My childhood was lonely. I studied remotely; my grandparents took care of me. I learned that words could protect you—that they could create a place where no one could hurt you.”
“This book… Wolf Head… is different. I didn’t write it to sell it. I wrote it to create a world like the one I wished had existed—a world where no one could exclude you for your appearance, for your flaws.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and warm.
“Aren’t you afraid of me?” Charlie asked, his voice barely audible.
Angela smiled, sincerely.
“No. I was afraid of you before, like everyone here in Novawolf… but after all this… I’m not afraid anymore.”
Charlie felt the world stop for a moment. And although he knew revealing his face was dangerous, he also knew he could trust Angela.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” he continued. “Because if you did—if you understood—you would start looking for a way out. And if Novawolf tries to cross…”
He shook his head.
“This world can’t sustain two realities. It anchors itself to only one. If that anchor breaks, it collapses. If it crosses… it disappears.”
Angela slowly lowered her hand.
“So… all of this…?”
“It’s real,” he said quickly. “What you feel is real. You are real. But you depend on a structure that doesn’t belong to you.”
She looked at him, resigned.
“Why didn’t you trust me?”
“Because trusting you became the most dangerous thing of all.”
"Angela remained quiet. I wish I could help you." Angela said:

Charlie lifted his gaze, broken.

"I need to get my life back.
and to rewrite something.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll help you.” She said.
“Angela— wait" Charlie said.

If this world is at risk of disappearing, I want to have at least tried to do something.
“Don’t ask me to stay on the sidelines,” she said. 
She stepped closer and hugged him.

“I wish everything had been different.”  she whispered.
“And me too.” he replied.
It was a reality that hurt them both.
Charlie and Angela sat facing each other, the device between them, as if there were no longer any need to look at it to know what it contained. Outside, Novawolf continued to breathe normally: footsteps, lights, masks crossing paths, unaware that their world hung from a decision made in silence.
“There’s no way to save everything,” Angela finally said. “Only to choose what is lost.”
Charlie nodded.
“If I try to take anyone else with me… if two cross… the anchor breaks.” Charlie said.
“And if you stay,” she continued, “the Regent will use the anchor. He’ll control the edits. He won’t let Novawolf be free.”
Charlie lowered his gaze.
“There’s only one option, then.”
Ángela had already understood, but she needed to say it.
“You’ll go back,” she said. “Only you.”
Charlie took a deep breath.
“And the book closes.”
She lifted her head.
“Close it… for real?”
“Seal it,” he replied. “No more edits. No more corrections. No more erasures.”
Ángela felt a knot tighten in her chest.
“That means you won’t be able to protect us.”
“It means I won’t be able to control you. And I don’t want to keep controlling you,” Charlie corrected. “It means you’ll exist on your own.”
He stood up and walked toward the window.
From there, Novawolf looked like a living organism—imperfect, fragile.

“All this time, you believed order was what kept you safe,” he said. “ But order doesn’t keep you safe; it only keeps you controlled by yourselves.” Chsrlie Said.

Ángela stepped closer.
“If the book is sealed,” she said, “does Novawolf stop depending on you?”
“Yes. Exactly,” Charlie answered. “It starts depending on you. On the choices you make. On how you treat one another. On what you build—or destroy.”
They looked at each other.
“That’s freedom,” Ángela whispered. “Even if it hurts.”
Charlie sat back down.
“But there’s a price.”
She didn’t answer.
“If I seal the book,” he went on, “I can never return. I can never touch this world again. Not even to come back for you. It’s final.”
Ángela closed her eyes.
“I know.”
Silence took over.
“This is my world,” Ángela said softly. “This is my world. Even if it was written by you, even if it was edited… this is where I belong.”
Charlie looked at her sadly.
Ángela met his gaze with a calm sorrow.
“And what is the machine you used to come here?” she asked. “Or what did you use to travel?”
Charlie shook his head slowly, as if the question weighed more than she expected.
“There is no machine. And actually, it’s not that I did something to be here… or, well, I did do something—but not intentionally. It was a mistake. Or a distraction.”
Ángela frowned, intrigued.
“Then what?”
Charlie took a deep breath.
“I remember I was writing in my book. A scene about the Regent.”
“The Regent?” she repeated.
“Yes. But the character I created doesn’t resemble the one I see in Novawolf today. Mine was honest, fair, an empathetic leader, full of virtues… maybe too idealistic. In my story, the Regent begins to notice incoherent signs in his world. Small glitches. Details that don’t fit. He suspects another dimension exists and wants to reach it.”
Ángela listened without interrupting.
“I was revising that part,” Charlie continued. “I couldn’t quite close the idea. I had invented a phrase the Regent said to cross dimensions, but it didn’t feel like enough. It couldn’t be just a sentence. I wanted to describe the movements, explain it properly, make it real. So I stood up, thinking: if I act it out and it works, I’ll describe it exactly like that.”
He fell silent for a moment.
“I reached out my hand. I said the phrase. And I appeared, passing through a wall, behind a recycling container, bathed in violet light… on Fourth Street.”
Angela listened intently.
“I’ve got it,” she said. “We might have a solution.”
Charlie looked at her, hopeful.
“Maybe,” she continued, “while you were doing it in your world, the character here, in Novawolf, was doing the same thing. Because, according to you, he’s no longer exactly as you created him. He’s mutated. Changed. Maybe, at that very moment, he was also trying to cross.”
Angela stepped closer.
“And by repeating the same phrase… with the connection implied by you being his creator… something happened. Maybe when energy from your world interacts with energy from this world, the portal opens.”
Silence once again filled Angela’s living room.

That same night, Angela accompanied Charlie to the dark alley on Fourth Street. The wall was still there—rough, ordinary, as if it had never been anything but a boundary contained within a simple building.

They stood facing each other.
“Promise me something, Charlie.”
“Anything.”
“That when you rewrite,” she said, “you’ll do it knowing there’s a world here with beliefs and traditions, a history that matters even if it’s not real. Don’t destroy it.”
Charlie nodded.
“I promise.”
They looked into each other’s eyes one last time.
They extended their hands 
And, in unison, they repeated: “Everything the mind is capable of creating inhabits some space. I am the wind and the force, the energy and the reason. My hand opens the portal." 

The violet light slowly formed over the wall, vibrating as if unsure of its own existence. Then it burst outward, enveloping Charlie and carrying him back to his world.

Angela closed her eyes; the light dazzled her.
When she opened them again, she didn’t know why she was standing there, alone, at three in the morning, and remembered nothing. The alley was just an alley. A wall. Next to a recycling container.
Nothing more.
She walked confidently to her home, as if she had been guided. She lay down and slept.

The next morning, Novawolf was a city where everything functioned as usual. The citizens wore their spotless jumpsuits, aligned boots, and wolf masks.

The polished buildings reflected the exact light. The lighthouse celebrated new revelations. The paper café remained a tradition. History, mythology, order.
There was no memory of any Charlie ever existing.
There was no memory of the existence of The One Who Takes.
Novawolf was stability, justice, equality.
Every few years, someone would appear, presenting their wild hypotheses about other worlds of liquid coffee and fires—worlds where wolves were just a common species among others, …and worlds of uncovered faces where, even then, you couldn’t know what others hide in their minds.

Many nights, Angela walked alone through the streets of Novawolf, feeling a fleeting glimpse of another reality. A spark of memory she couldn’t explain—sometimes it seemed like a dream, sometimes like a memory—like a whisper speaking to her of worlds that didn’t exist…

                 COMIC COVER

                BOOK COVER