The last thing I remember was the sound of metal screaming.
Tires skidded. Glass shattered. Something heavy slammed into my chest, crushing the air out of my lungs. The world spun once—twice—then everything went black.
I thought that was it.
Death.
But instead of darkness, I heard… typing.
Not a keyboard I could see. Not fingers I could touch. Just the steady, emotionless clack—clack—clack of keys, echoing somewhere above my thoughts.
I tried to open my eyes.
Pain bloomed instantly, sharp and overwhelming, like my body was reminding me I wasn't supposed to wake up yet.
> The pain was unbearable. He struggled to breathe, his vision blurring as consciousness threatened to slip away once more.
I froze.
That wasn't a thought.
That wasn't my voice.
It was… narration.
The words didn't echo in my ears. They appeared fully formed in my mind, cold and precise, describing my suffering as if it were a scene being observed—not experienced.
"No," I whispered. My throat felt raw, like I had been screaming for hours. "That's not… that's not right."
> He attempted to speak, but his voice came out hoarse and weak.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The sentence updated itself the moment I spoke.
I wasn't thinking those words. I was being described.
Panic surged through me. I forced my eyes open, half-expecting to see a hospital ceiling, bright lights, doctors rushing around.
Instead, I saw… nothing strange.
A white room. Plain walls. A faint smell of disinfectant. A beeping sound somewhere to my left. A hospital bed. IV tubes.
Normal.
Too normal.
But the feeling wouldn't go away—that sense of being watched, measured, written.
> He opened his eyes to a sterile hospital room, unaware that this moment marked the beginning of his true tragedy.
My fingers trembled.
"Stop," I said, louder this time. "Who's there?"
The typing paused.
For half a second, the world felt… unfinished. Like a sentence that hadn't reached its period yet.
Then the typing resumed.
> There was no answer. Of course, there couldn't be.
My chest tightened. "Of course there couldn't be?" I repeated. "who are you?"
Silence.
I looked around desperately, searching for cameras, mirrors—anything. But the room remained stubbornly ordinary.
Then something appeared.
Not physically. Not floating in the air.
It appeared between moments.
A sensation—no, a certainty—that if I focused just a little harder, I could see the edges of reality. Like noticing the borders of a page you'd been reading all along.
And then I saw it.
A line.
Not a line you could touch. A line you understood.
---
Chapter 12: The Awakening
---
My breath caught.
"What the hell is that?" I whispered.
The line didn't fade. It didn't react. It simply existed, etched into my awareness like a label.
Chapter.
My mind raced. Hallucination. Coma dream. Brain damage from the accident.
That had to be it.
I laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway. "Okay… okay. That's fine. People dream weird stuff when they're dying. This is normal. Totally normal."
> He laughed, trying to convince himself this was just a dream.
My laughter died.
"Why are you answering so fast?" I asked the empty room.
The typing slowed.
Not stopped. Slowed.
Like whoever—or whatever—was on the other side had begun to pay attention.
Memories flooded back, not of my life, but of this life.
Names. Places. Relationships I didn't remember living through, but somehow knew were mine.
A childhood friend who would die young.
A mentor destined to betray me.
A future where I would struggle, suffer… and lose.
It hit me all at once.
This wasn't my life.
This was a story.
And I wasn't the reader.
I was the character.
"No," I said immediately, shaking my head. "No, that's impossible. People don't just wake up inside novels. That's stupid. That's—"
> Denial came naturally.
I swallowed hard.
"Don't do that," I said. My voice was steadier now, fear sharpening my focus. "Don't summarize my emotions like you own them."
The typing stopped.
This time, completely.
The silence stretched. The beeping of the monitor felt too loud, too real, like it was trying to anchor me to the world.
Then, slowly, carefully, new words formed.
> …
Three dots.
A pause.
I felt it then—a shift. Not in the room, but in authority. Like the story itself was reassessing me.
"You can hear me," I said.
It wasn't a question.
> He shouldn't be able to do that.
A chill ran down my spine.
"Author," I whispered, the word tasting wrong in my mouth. "That's what you are, right?"
The air felt heavy, like before a storm.
> There was no response.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. "Listen to me. I don't know why this is happening, but I know one thing."
My hands clenched into fists under the blanket.
"I don't want the ending you wrote."
The typing resumed—faster now.
> That ending is inevitable.
My stomach dropped.
"I saw it," I said quietly. "The pain. The losses. The way this story treats me like suffering is my purpose."
No denial came this time.
"So let's make a deal," I continued. "You want a good story, right? Tension. Conflict. Growth."
I opened my eyes.
"Let me live."
For the first time since I woke up, the narration didn't immediately respond.
Seconds passed.
Then a new line appeared—one I hadn't seen before.
---
Author's Note:
Every character believes they deserve a better ending.
---
My heart pounded.
I smiled—not because I was happy, but because I finally understood.
"You're wrong," I said softly.
"This isn't about deserving."
I looked straight ahead, as if I could see beyond the page, beyond the screen, beyond whoever was reading this moment.
"It's about refusing."
The world trembled, just slightly.
And somewhere far away, I heard the sound of a chapter being rewritten.