The stranger didn't raise his voice.
He didn't reach for her.
That was what scared her.
"You're not supposed to be here."
The words landed calmly, like a fact already proven.
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her heart was still pounding too hard, her thoughts tripping over each other as she tried to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. The stone walls. The lamps. The hallway she had memorized from the page like it was muscle memory.
"This—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. "This isn't real."
The stranger's expression tightened, just slightly. Not anger. Recognition.
"That's exactly what I said," he replied. "Before I learned better."
That snapped something in her.
"No," she said, sharper now. "That's not possible. You're—" She stopped herself.
You're a character, she almost said.
He took a step closer. Instinctively, she stepped back, her heel hitting stone. Cold. Solid. Real in a way her bedroom carpet had never been.
"You know this place," he said. It wasn't a question. His eyes flicked to the door behind her, then back to her face. "The way you're standing. Like you expect something to happen."
Her fingers curled into her sleeves.
"I don't," she lied.
He studied her the way someone studies a locked door—patient, careful, already planning how to open it.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The question felt dangerous.
She hesitated too long.
His jaw tightened. "Right. That answers that."
"Wait," she said quickly. "I just— I got lost."
"In a restricted hallway?" His eyebrow lifted. "During lockdown?"
Her stomach dropped.
Lockdown. She remembered that word. Chapter twelve. A minor detail she had skimmed the first time. A turning point she hadn't reached yet.
This wasn't just the setting.
This was the timeline.
"I can leave," she said, though she had no idea how. "I didn't mean to be here."
"You won't," he replied. "Not until they notice."
"Who's they?"
Before he could answer, distant voices echoed down the corridor. Sharp. Urgent. Too many footsteps.
His expression changed instantly.
"Stay close," he said. "And don't speak."
"What—"
He grabbed her wrist.
His touch was warm. Human. Not ink. Not imagination.
Her protest died in her throat.
He pulled her toward the door, pushing it open just enough to slip inside. The room beyond was dark, storage-like, filled with the smell of old wood and dust. He shut the door quietly, pressing her back against the wall before she could react.
They stood inches apart.
Her breath caught—not because of him, but because her mind finally caught up.
This was real.
Painfully, terrifyingly real.
Footsteps passed outside. Voices muttered. Someone laughed.
The stranger didn't move until the sounds faded.
Only then did he step back.
"You're going to get both of us in trouble," he said.
"I didn't ask for this," she shot back, anger finally cutting through the fear. "I didn't choose to come here."
He looked at her carefully.
"No one ever does."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, he spoke again—lower now.
"If you really don't belong here," he said, "then this world is about to notice. And when it does, it won't be kind."
Her chest tightened.
Because deep down, she already knew something was wrong.
The story wasn't unfolding the way it was supposed to.
And somehow—she was the reason.