The red thread doors pulsed like hearts stitched into the walls.
Mikael stood still, one hand gripping Lina's. Elise walked ahead, silent and tense. Her eyes never left the crimson stitching, which moved slightly—as if something behind the door was breathing.
"The girl behind this door," Elise said at last, "was supposed to die in the prologue."
Mikael's brow furrowed. "Then how is she—?"
"You rewrote her," Elise cut in. "Over and over again. You gave her everything: rage, beauty, betrayal, power. You made her immortal just so she could suffer."
Lina flinched. "Why would you do that?"
"I thought she was the perfect character," Mikael murmured. "She was supposed to carry the story."
"She did," Elise said grimly. "But now she's awake, and she knows what you did."
Elise placed her hand on the red thread.
The door fell apart—no creak, no slam. Just silence, followed by the smell of ink.
Not paper ink. Blood-ink.
Inside was a study—an impossible replica of Mikael's old writing desk, buried in pages. Candles burned in corners that had no light source. And at the center, sitting on the desk with her legs crossed, was a girl with eyes darker than night and skin like porcelain stained with calligraphy strokes.
She smiled. "Hello again, Mikael."
Mikael swallowed. "Ariadne."
The girl stood up.
"I remember every version of me," Ariadne said, walking slowly. "You made me love the hero. Then kill him. Then rise from death. Then fall into madness. Then rule. Then rot. And every time, you added another chapter."
"I didn't mean to hurt you," Mikael said quietly.
"But you needed to hurt me to make your story work," she said, still smiling. "I was your favorite nightmare. Your masterpiece of misery."
Lina stepped forward. "He's not that person anymore."
Ariadne's smile faded. "Then let's find out."
She raised her hand—and the study transformed. Pages flew from the walls like wings. Ink bled into the floor, forming chains. Mikael was dragged to his knees.
"Let's play a game, author," Ariadne whispered. "Rewrite me now."
The door behind them vanished. Elise tried to summon her blade—but it melted into ink.
Only Lina remained unbound. She reached for Mikael, her voice steady.
"Then I'll write for him."
Ariadne turned.
"Oh? A new author enters the Dollhouse?"
The candles flared.
And the floor opened beneath them.