The hum was back.
A low thrum, vibrating deep in Elliot's bones.
It always started this way.
A prelude to the script.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Not here. Not now.
Please.
The air in his small apartment grew colder.
Dust motes, usually dancing in the slivers of morning light, seemed to freeze mid-air.
Then, the familiar shimmer at the very edge of his sight.
Letters, stark white against nothing.
「STORYTHREAD — LIVE」
Viewers: 8
Status: Serializing…
Eight.
More than yesterday.
Are they recruiting? he thought, a bitter taste in his mouth.
A new line of text blinked into existence beneath the status.
A comment.
"He looks too comfortable. That bed's too soft for a protagonist."
Elliot's breath hitched.
Oh no.
He knew what came next.
The subtle shift in reality. The world bending to their whims.
To its whim. The Constellation.
He scrambled, half-falling out of the worn mattress.
His feet hit the cold, wooden floorboards.
Too late.
A tremor ran through the building.
Not an earthquake.
This was targeted. Personal.
The floor beneath his bed groaned.
Then, with a sickening crack, it splintered.
His cheap metal bed frame, the thin mattress, the threadbare blanket – all of it lurched.
Tilted.
And slid into a newly formed chasm in his own bedroom floor.
Dust plumed, stinging his eyes.
The crash echoed from the apartment below.
He could already hear Mrs. Henderson's muffled, furious shouting.
Great. Just great.
Elliot stared at the jagged hole.
One moment, a floor. The next, a pit.
Because someone, somewhere, typed a sentence.
Because eight pairs of unseen eyes wanted a less comfortable protagonist.
Another comment flickered.
"Better. Now, adversity!"
Adversity?
He was already late on rent. His job at the diner was hanging by a thread.
He ate instant noodles three times a day.
What more adversity did they need?
The hum intensified.
It wasn't just in his bones now. It was in the air, in the walls.
The very fabric of his miserable little life was being rewoven.
And the needle was sharp.
A sharp, piercing pain shot through his left hand.
Elliot cried out, clutching it.
He looked down.
Nothing. No cut. No blood.
But the pain was real. Agonizing.
As if fingers were being individually snapped.
They want me to scream.
He remembered that comment. From before.
He bit his lip, tasting blood.
He wouldn't.
Not yet.
The pain subsided as quickly as it came, leaving a dull, throbbing ache.
A warning.
A taste of what they could do.
What it could do. The Constellation 'Heroism Born From A Spider's Bite'.
Such a ridiculous name.
Such terrifying power.
He could almost feel its gaze. Cold. Analytical.
Like a biologist observing an insect.
Am I just an insect to you?
The floating words remained.
「STORYTHREAD — LIVE」
Viewers: 8
Status: Serializing…
The number hadn't changed.
Were they satisfied? For now?
He doubted it.
This was just the overture.
A faint, almost inaudible whisper brushed past his ear.
It wasn't a comment. It wasn't the hum.
It was something else.
Words, not quite formed.
A suggestion. An idea.
The Constellation's narrative thread, being spun.
Get out.
The thought was his own, sharp and urgent.
But it felt… amplified.
As if the thought itself was being highlighted, underlined by the unseen author.
He glanced at the door.
His only escape from this suddenly hostile room.
The floorboards creaked ominously near the new hole.
His apartment, his sanctuary, was now a trap.
Crafted by cosmic whim.
He needed clothes. His wallet. Keys.
Survival instincts, honed by weeks of this torment, kicked in.
Weeks? Or was it months?
Time blurred when your life was a live broadcast.
He edged around the chasm, his good hand pressed against the peeling wallpaper for balance.
The air still felt charged.
Like the moment before a lightning strike.
Another comment.
"Is he going to cry? I hope he cries."
Elliot's jaw tightened.
Not for you, he thought fiercely. Never for you.
He snatched his jeans from the back of a chair, a faded t-shirt.
His worn sneakers were by the door.
Each movement felt deliberate, exaggerated.
As if he were on a stage.
Which, he supposed, he was.
The wallet was on the small, scarred table he used as a desk.
Next to it, a single, wilting dandelion in a chipped teacup.
A relic from a time before.
Before the flickers. Before the words.
Before the story.
He grabbed the wallet. Shoved it into his pocket.
The keys jangled as he picked them up.
Too loud.
Everything felt too loud. Too exposed.
The whisper came again, stronger this time.
A scene.
A crowded street. A chase.
No.
He didn't want it.
He lunged for the door, yanking it open.
The hallway of his apartment building was blessedly normal.
Dimly lit. Smelling faintly of old takeout and despair.
His despair, mostly.
He slammed the door shut behind him.
The sound echoed.
Mrs. Henderson's door creaked open a crack down the hall.
An eye peered out.
He didn't wait. He fled.
Down the rickety stairs, two at a time.
His breath came in ragged gasps.
Not from exertion.
From the sickening certainty that this was only the beginning.
The chapter was just getting started.
He burst out onto the street.
Morning traffic rumbled. People hurried past, faces set in Monday morning masks.
Normal.
For them.
Elliot leaned against the brick wall of his building, trying to catch his breath.
The floating words were still there.
Persistent. Mocking.
「STORYTHREAD — LIVE」
Viewers: 8
Status: Serializing…
A new comment.
"Okay, that was a decent opener. What's the inciting incident for this arc?"
Inciting incident.
Arc.
They spoke of his life as if it were fiction.
Because to them, it was.
He was their entertainment. Their plaything.
What do you want from me?
The question screamed in his mind, but he knew there would be no answer.
Only more story. More pain.
More rewriting.
The whisper solidified.
No longer a vague suggestion.
Now, it was a pull. A compulsion.
Turn left.
Walk towards the market district.
Something was waiting for him there.
The Constellation had set the stage.
He tried to resist. He tried to plant his feet.
No. I'll go right. I'll go anywhere but where you want.
His muscles tensed. Strained.
It was like fighting an invisible current.
Slowly, inexorably, his head turned left.
His body followed.
One unwilling step. Then another.
He was walking.
Towards the market.
Towards whatever fresh hell the Constellation had devised.
The viewers were probably thrilled.
"Good. Plot progression. Let's see some conflict."
Conflict.
Right on cue.
Elliot's eyes scanned the street, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach.
It wouldn't be subtle. It never was.
The Constellation preferred bold strokes. Dramatic entrances.
A flash of crimson from the alleyway across the street.
Too bright. Too sudden.
Then a figure emerged.
Tall, cloaked in that same impossible red.
The cloak seemed to drink the light, making the figure appear almost two-dimensional, cut from shadow.
But the glint of steel at their hip was very, very real.
Elliot froze.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
Is this it? Is this the 'conflict'?
The figure's head turned.
Even from this distance, Elliot felt the weight of their attention.
It wasn't the cold, detached observation of the Constellation.
This was different.
This was predatory.
The figure started across the street.
Weaving through the oblivious traffic with unnerving grace.
Coming straight for him.
The hum was back, louder now, a war drumbeat in Elliot's ears.
The floating text shimmered.
「STORYTHREAD — LIVE」
Viewers: 9
Status: Serializing…
Nine.
Someone new had joined.
Just in time for the show.
He had to move. He had to run.
But his feet felt bolted to the pavement.
The Constellation's script held him fast.
The protagonist doesn't flee before the confrontation.
Not yet.
The red-cloaked figure was closer now.
He could see their face. Or rather, the mask that covered it.
Smooth, white, featureless.
Like a porcelain doll.
A terrifyingly blank canvas.
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at Elliot's throat.
This wasn't a random mugger.
This was… a character.
Another player on the Constellation's stage.
Sent for him.
Who are you? he wanted to scream.
But the words wouldn't come.
His role was clear.
Victim. Target. Protagonist.
And the story was just getting started.