Merlot sat on a black swivel chair in front of the typewriter, steadily pounding the keyboard on his ancient Selectric typewriter. The clacking sound did not distract him from seeing Lolita appear before him —just as he'd written her. She wore a pink slip dress, barely concealing her 40D breasts, too large for her delicate frame. Scars, the work of surgeons who'd reshaped her into something unreal, traced faint lines beneath the silk.
She didn't speak. In her world, Merlot was the ghost.
He watched her from the edge of the scene—disembodied, invisible, present only as a weight in the air. That's how he entered the world of his characters: not as their god, but as their haunt.
Lolita turned slightly, as if sensing something just beyond her field of vision. Merlot ached to speak to her, to apologize for what he'd made her into. But that wasn't how it worked.
He would return to her later, drifting into the next chapter like smoke. For now, he had other work: the Sangria War needed resolution, and his manuscript had grown unwieldy—bloated and bloodstained with too many plot lines.
A voice haunted him. Not Lolita's, but the sneering echo of the wannabe author.
You've nowhere to be, Merlot, the voice taunted. You need flesh to have a life—not ink.
The words hit like a punch to the gut, sharp and familiar. Merlot clenched his fists, knuckles whitening.
Shut up! Merlot thought, his mind loud and defensive. I don't have time for you—not when I have a meeting with my professor.
"You're transgender because you're trying to be someone you aren't."
Fuck off! Merlot snapped. I've been transgender all my life. You're the one trying to copy me! He rose from his chair, rage spilling over.
In the bathroom, the shower hissed steam, climbing the tiles. The voice was silent, but it always returned like unwanted company. Back at the typewriter, his fingers shook. The page glared blank, accusing. He tried to focus on his next assignment: James' political speech to Ossory's citizens, a story his professor expected by morning. The words wouldn't come. He pictured James—confident, articulate, everything Merlot felt he wasn't—standing before a restless crowd, promising change. But Merlot froze, unable to bridge the gap between his own uncertainty and the certainty his character demanded.
The real war wasn't on the page—it was the clash of character and creator, flesh and ink, truth and the lies he told himself. Was he the author, or just another story being written? Merlot stared at the blank page, heart pounding, and wondered if he would ever find his way back into the stories that once saved him—or if he would remain forever at the mercy of the voice that claimed to be the real author, echoing in his mind.
*******
James Evergreen stepped off his private jet, the wind tugging at his coat like invisible hands. Artemis, Tyler, and Sterling followed behind him. They weren't just advisors—they were his armour.
Inside the limo, Sterling leaned forward, voice low and taut. "James, this is reckless. Addressing the miners directly? You're walking into a powder keg."
James swirled his rye, watching the city blur past the tinted glass. "There's no turning back now."
Sterling didn't reply. He just stared out the window, jaw clenched.
The crowd outside the legislative building was a living storm—fifty thousand strong, packed shoulder to shoulder, their faces hard with fury. The air buzzed with heat and resentment. Chants echoed off the stone walls like war drums.
James stepped onto the platform. The microphone hissed with static. Before he could speak, a man in a dust-covered blue T-shirt shouted, "You're a bastard! Raising taxes to fund the royal family's lifestyle!"
James raised a hand, his voice steady. "Intermarium's debt has soared. We borrowed heavily from Renee Clinton, ruler of Catwerp. It was necessary."
"We want a new ruler!" the man roared. The crowd erupted.
Sterling's eyes darted across the mass—too many faces, too much rage. Something was about to snap.
A bottle of Sangria flew through the air, spinning like a comet. Sterling lunged, shoving James to the wooden floor. The bottle shattered against Sterling's shoulder. He cried out, blood blooming across his arm.
"Sterling!" Artemis rushed to him, panic in his voice.
Sterling's face was pale; his sleeve was soaked in red. Shards of glass glittered in his skin.
James scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. "We need to get him to a hospital—now!"
Security swarmed the stage. The crowd surged forward, screaming. Another bottle flew. Then a rock.
They fled, ducking behind the barricades as the roar of the people chased them like fire.