The bell rang again.
Closer this time.
She felt it before she heard it—the vibration settling deep in her bones, like a warning meant for things that didn't fully belong. Her ribs throbbed with each breath, but something colder spread beneath the pain.
Wrongness.
The door creaked open.
He stepped back inside, expression tight. "They're moving faster than usual."
"Who?" she asked, though part of her already knew.
"The Keepers."
The word sat heavy in the room.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, ignoring the sharp protest from her side. "That's not in the book."
"No," he said. "It wouldn't be."
Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside—measured, unhurried. Not chasing. Approaching.
"They don't hunt," he continued. "They correct."
A shadow passed beneath the door.
Then another.
Her pulse spiked. "What do they do to people like me?"
He hesitated just long enough to make the answer worse.
"They edit."
The door opened without a sound.
Three figures stood in the doorway.
Not guards. Not soldiers. They wore simple dark clothing, unmarked, unarmed. Ordinary enough that, in another context, they might have passed unnoticed.
Their eyes were the problem.
Too calm. Too knowing. Like they were looking at margins instead of people.
One of them stepped forward. A woman, maybe. Her voice was soft, almost kind.
"You've caused a deviation."
The pressure returned instantly, heavier than before. Her vision blurred at the edges.
"I didn't mean to," she said, breathless. "I was just—"
"Intent is irrelevant," the Keeper replied. "Only impact matters."
The woman's gaze shifted to him.
"You survived a scene that was meant to define you."
He said nothing.
Then her eyes settled back on the girl.
"And you," she continued, "were never written at all."
Her knees trembled.
"What happens now?" she asked.
The Keeper tilted her head, as if considering a line of text.
"Now we determine whether you are an error," she said, "or an addition."
Another Keeper raised a hand. The air thickened, pressing down on her chest until breathing hurt.
"She's injured," he snapped. "If you remove her now—"
"She already paid," the Keeper interrupted. "Blood is a binding."
That word again.
Anchored.
Real.
The woman stepped closer, stopping just short of the bed.
"You entered this world at a moment of emotional fracture," she said calmly. "You resonated with a narrative already under strain. That is why you remain."
Her voice softened—dangerously so.
"But resonance alone is not permission."
The pressure intensified.
"Stop," he said, stepping between them.
The room seemed to pause.
Interesting.
The Keeper's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You would shield an anomaly?"
He didn't look back at her. "She's not an anomaly anymore."
Silence stretched.
Then the woman smiled.
A thin, unsettling thing.
"Perhaps," she said. "Then we will observe."
She stepped back.
"For now."
The pressure lifted all at once, leaving her gasping.
As the Keepers turned to leave, the woman spoke one last time.
"Every change you make will cost more," she said. "And when the story decides the price is too high—"
She didn't finish the sentence.
They didn't need to.
The door closed.
The room felt emptier than before.
She lay back, exhausted, shaking—not from pain, but from the realization settling in.
They weren't villains.
They were maintenance.
He sat beside the bed again, quieter now.
"They're watching," she said.
"Yes."
"And if I mess up again?"
He met her eyes.
"Then the story won't hurt you," he said. "It'll erase you."
She swallowed hard.
Outside, somewhere deep within the world, a page turned.
And this time—
She was written on it.