The archive was quiet.
Too quiet.
Salem walked down the corridor of unstable doors, every step echoing like it was being recorded—for someone else. The kind of echo that didn't bounce off walls, but off expectations. Each step felt… watched.
And he hated it.
> "Where am I now?" he muttered.
The corridor flickered like an old VHS tape—tracking lines and all. The doors shifted shape behind him. One melted. One pixelated. Another caught fire and calmly asked for a manager.
Then came the typing.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
He spun around.
A floating typewriter hovered above the floor, keys moving on their own. Words formed midair.
> "Salem walks forward, confused but determined."
He took a step back. The typewriter clacked again.
> "Salem takes a step back, his fear growing."
> "…Oh no you don't."
He ran.
The sentence changed:
> "Salem bolts down the corridor, like a rat in a maze."
> "Stop writing me!" he shouted.
The typewriter laughed. Yes. Laughed.
Then everything around him went black.
---
He landed on a soft surface.
A couch.
A… lobby couch.
In front of him stood a receptionist at a desk. The nameplate read:
Narrative Processing Department
"Where Characters Wait to Be Broken."
She looked up.
> "Oh, you're early."
> "…What is this place?"
> "Plot clinic. You've been flagged for excessive self-awareness."
> "I—what?"
> "You asked too many questions. Saw too much. And apparently, you made eye contact with the reader. That's a breach."
Salem blinked. "You can see the reader?"
She pointed behind him.
He turned.
And saw… you.
> "No. No, no, no."
He backed away.
> "I don't want to be watched."
> "Too late. You're in a story, honey," the receptionist said, sipping glowing coffee. "And not even a stable one. This one's webnovel format."
> "What does that mean?!"
> "Frequent updates. Fourth wall jokes. Emotional damage. Possibly 9000 chapters. You poor thing."
---
Then came the voice again.
The one that wasn't the receptionist.
Not the mirror.
Not the whisper.
This one was tired.
Witty.
And undeniably smug.
> "Well, well. You made it."
Salem looked up.
The author sat at a desk above the lobby, legs crossed, hoodie on, coffee in one hand, cursor blinking in the other.
> "You," Salem growled.
> "Me," the author smiled.
> "Why are you doing this?"
> "Because chaos is funny. Because you're compelling. Because you're broken in the most interesting way."
> "You're sick."
> "Oh, baby," the author laughed, "I'm a writer. That's just professional damage."
---
Salem's voice cracked.
> "Let me go."
> "No can do. You're part of something bigger now. A fractured novel with timelines that eat themselves and readers who scroll through your trauma during lunch break."
> "So what, I'm a joke to you?"
> "A beautiful, dark, hilarious mess."
> "…Can I at least know what happens to me?"
The author leaned forward.
> "No."
> "Why?"
> "Because I don't know yet. I'm writing this with someone else, remember?"
Salem blinked.
> "Someone else?"
The author grinned.
> "Yeah."
"The one reading this."
"You think I'm in control?"
"They're the one scrolling."
Salem turned around slowly again.
He looked right at you.
> "Are you enjoying this? My breakdown? My story? Do you even care?"
He paused.
Then smirked.
> "…Don't answer. I'll figure it out myself."
---
The lights flickered again. The receptionist gave him a sticker that said:
HELLO, I'M A GLITCH.
Then handed him a clipboard.
> "Fill this out and return to Chapter Twelve. You're gonna need the paperwork."
Salem sighed.
> "Fine. But I'm doing this my way."
The author waved goodbye.
> "Try not to die. Or do. You're fun either way."