Ehaan took the stairs. Elevators were death traps in high-stakes narratives; stairwells were just transition scenes. They were safer.
As he climbed to the 45th floor, the air pressure changed. His ears popped, but it didn't feel like altitude; it felt like he was walking into a room where the ventilation system had been set to 'Dramatic'.
He pushed open the heavy fire door.
The wind hit him instantly. It wasn't just wind; it was a gale-force cliché, whipping his tie over his shoulder and messing up his hair perfectly, just like on a movie poster. Riya was standing at the edge of the roof, looking out over the city. The backdrop was stunning—too stunning. The sun was setting, despite it being 11:00 AM.
[Lighting Adjustment: Golden Hour. Mood: Melancholic/Tense.]
Ehaan walked over, checking the gravel on the roof for tripwires or plot devices.
"You're late," Riya said, not turning around.
"I took the stairs," Ehaan replied. "And the sun is wrong. It was morning ten minutes ago."
Riya turned. Up close, she looked exhausted. The trench coat was still there, but the 'mysterious spy' vibe was cracking. She looked like an actress waiting for a lunch break.
"Time is fluid here," she said, lighting a cigarette. Ehaan noticed the flame didn't flicker in the wind. Prop error. "The Author is rushing to the emotional beats. He wants us to bond over shared trauma against a beautiful sunset."
"Who is he?" Ehaan asked. "God?"
"Worse," Riya exhaled smoke that vanished instantly. "A first-time novelist. Or maybe a screenwriter. Someone who thinks 'cool' is a substitute for 'coherent'."
Ehaan walked to the edge. The city below looked like a low-resolution JPEG. The cars weren't moving; they were just painted lights. The Author wasn't rendering the world outside the scene.
"You said you were 'Aware'," Ehaan said, pointing to the space above her head. The tag was back to [The Mysterious Courier].
"How long?"
"Three drafts," Riya said bitterly. "In the first draft, I was your tragic wife who died in a car crash to give you motivation. I screamed at the sky until the scene dissolved. In the second draft, I was the villain. That was fun, but he couldn't write good dialogue, so he scrapped it. Now, I'm the 'Courier'. I'm supposed to give you the MacGuffin and guide you to the Rebellion."
"There's a Rebellion?"
"There's always a Rebellion, Ehaan. It's lazy world-building 101."
Suddenly, the rooftop door banged open. The metal groaned as if struck by a battering ram.
[Conflict Introduction: sudden and violent.]
Three men stepped out. They were dressed in tactical black gear, wearing balaclavas. They held guns that looked menacing but generic—no brand, no specific make. Just 'Gun'.
"Hand over the Device!" the lead man shouted. His voice was deep, modulated, and utterly devoid of personality.
Riya sighed and reached into her coat. "Here we go. Action sequence."
Ehaan stepped in front of her. "Wait."
The lead gunman paused. He seemed confused that the shooting hadn't started.
Ehaan squinted at the space above the gunman's head.
[Entity: Goon #1. Stats: Aim (Low), Aggression (High). Motivation: None.]
"Motivation: None," Ehaan read aloud.
The gunman stiffened. "What?"
"You don't have a motivation," Ehaan said, walking toward the man. It was suicide in a normal world, but Ehaan was testing the logic of a fictional one. A character with no motivation is a hollow shell. They have no anchor. "Why do you want the device? Is it for money? Loyalty? Ideology?"
The gunman looked at his partners. They shrugged. The script hadn't given them lines for this.
"I... we have orders," the gunman stammered.
"From whom?" Ehaan pressed, stepping closer. He was now face-to-face with the barrel of the gun. "What is the organization's name? What is your dental plan like? Do you have a name, or are you just 'Goon #1'?"
The air around the gunman began to vibrate. The reality of the character was collapsing under scrutiny.
[Error: Character Depth Insufficient. Dialogue Tree Empty.]
"I... I'm Dave?" the gunman tried, his voice cracking.
"No, you're not," Ehaan said softly. "You're a plot device. And a poorly written one."
He reached out and gently pushed the gun barrel down.
The gunman—Dave, or Goon #1—flickered. Like a bad hologram, his legs turned transparent. The Author was panicking. He couldn't sustain a confrontation that required actual character development.
[System Override: DELETE SCENE.]
The sky turned white.
The sound of the wind cut out. The sunset vanished. The gunmen didn't die; they just erased, dissolving into pixels.
Ehaan and Riya were left standing in a white void. The rooftop floor was still there, but the city, the sky, and the door were gone. They were in the blank page.
Riya dropped her cigarette. "You broke the scene," she whispered, looking terrified. "Ehaan, you don't edit the villain out of existence! He hates that!"
"He?"
"The Author!"
A rumble shook the white void. It wasn't sound; it was vibration. Giant, black letters began to form in the sky, dripping like fresh ink on the horizon.
[YOU THINK YOU ARE CLEVER? YOU WANT MOTIVATION? FINE.]
The white floor beneath them turned into liquid tar. Ehaan grabbed Riya's arm as the ground swallowed their feet.
[LET'S SEE HOW YOU HANDLE A TRAGEDY.]
"Run!" Riya screamed, pointing at a sudden tear in the white void—a glitched doorway leading to darkness.
Ehaan didn't argue. He knew when the editing phase was over and the rewrite had begun. He pulled Riya toward the tear, his mind racing. The Author was angry.
And an angry writer creates the best monsters.