Salem stared at the clipboard in his hands like it might bite him.
The receptionist—tall, vaguely humanoid, with a smile that didn't match her eyes—leaned lazily on the counter. The nameplate still read Narrative Processing Department: Where Characters Wait to Be Broken, but now there was a sticky note attached:
"Don't Feed the Protagonists."
> "Seriously?" Salem muttered, flipping through the papers. "What even is this?"
The forms were endless. Boxes for his name, his age, his blood type, his "primary existential dread," and one that simply asked:
"Do you consent to narrative manipulation? (Y/N/Maybe later)"
He scowled and wrote: "Screw you" in all caps.
The receptionist tutted.
> "We'll mark that as 'Maybe later.'"
> "This is insane," Salem said. "I'm not filling out bureaucracy for my own nightmare."
> "Oh, sweetie," she cooed, sipping her glowing coffee. "It's not for you. It's for the system. Every protagonist who breaks awareness has to be catalogued. Insurance, you know?"
> "Insurance? For what?"
> "Readers suing if the story gets too meta."
Salem blinked.
> "…That's a thing?"
> "Honey, everything's a thing if the lawyers get involved."
---
He tossed the clipboard onto the counter.
> "No. I'm not doing this."
> "Suit yourself. But until it's complete, you can't leave the lobby."
As if on cue, the double doors behind him glitched, flashing ACCESS DENIED in angry red text.
> "Fine," he muttered. "What happens if I don't comply?"
The receptionist smiled wider.
> "We recycle you into a side character. Want a name like 'Barista #3' for the rest of eternity?"
Salem swore under his breath and picked up the pen.
> "Fine. Whatever."
---
Halfway through the forms, the buzzing started again—static crawling along his skin like ants. Reality trembled.
A voice, not the receptionist's, purred into his mind.
> "You're stalling, Salem. The readers are getting bored."
He froze.
> "…You again."
> "Of course. You think filling out paperwork is compelling content? I'm trying to run a story here."
> "You're not in charge of me."
> "Oh, I'm not? Watch this."
The pen in his hand exploded in a puff of glitter and confetti.
> "WHAT—"
> "See? I'm literally rewriting you right now. Keep filling out the forms, or I'll make the next item a crayon. In pink."
> "…You wouldn't."
> "Oh, I absolutely would."
---
Salem growled and scribbled faster, leaving angry lines of ink in the boxes.
Name: SALEM.
Age: WHO CARES.
Existential Dread: ALL OF THEM.
Consent to Narrative Manipulation: NO (seriously, no).
The receptionist glanced at his answers and scribbled notes on her own clipboard.
> "Mmh, noncompliant protagonist, potential runner, probable fourth-wall hazard… Yep, we'll need a waiver for this one."
> "A waiver for what?!"
> "For the scene you're about to walk into," she said sweetly. "Have a nice day."
---
The moment Salem finished the last page, the air snapped like overstretched film. The double doors unlocked with a mechanical groan.
Behind them, a hallway stretched into darkness—not a normal darkness, but the kind that felt alive, like it was breathing you in.
Salem hesitated.
> "…Do I have to?"
The receptionist gestured with her mug.
> "Only if you want to move forward. Or would you rather spend the rest of eternity in bureaucratic purgatory?"
He sighed and stepped through.
---
The Hall of Drafts
The hallway wasn't stable. It shifted under his feet, walls flickering with half-formed images—scenes that hadn't happened yet, characters who hadn't been born, battles that hadn't been fought. Drafts of a story, discarded or waiting.
As he passed one door, a muffled voice called out:
> "Hey! Remember me? I was supposed to be the protagonist before you got picked!"
Salem sped up.
Another door creaked open to reveal a version of himself—older, scarred, eyes empty.
> "Don't make the same choices I did," the older Salem rasped. "Or do. It doesn't matter. They'll rewrite you anyway."
Salem slammed the door shut.
---
At the end of the hall, a single file folder floated in the air, glowing faintly.
He reached for it.
The voice of the Writer whispered again:
> "Careful. That's not your file."
> "Then whose is it?"
> "Yours. But not this version."
The folder opened on its own.
Inside was a single line of text:
"Salem Grey—Status: Expired. Cause of Deletion: Narrative Incompatibility."
> "…What the hell does that mean?"
> "It means you weren't supposed to make it this far. But here you are."
The hallway convulsed, walls shuddering like something alive.
> "So what now?" Salem shouted into the darkness.
> "Now? You run. Chapter Thirteen isn't ready yet."
The floor dropped away.
---
Salem plummeted through static, words and symbols whipping past him. Snippets of his own story twisted around him—lines he hadn't lived yet, conversations he hadn't had. Somewhere, he thought he heard laughter—his own, but wrong.
He landed hard on solid ground.
The room was dark.
And then a dozen voices whispered in unison:
> "Welcome to the next draft, Salem."