She woke to the sound of water.
Not rushing—dripping. Slow. Steady. Annoyingly real.
Her eyes fluttered open, and pain answered before memory did. A deep ache along her side, sharp enough to force a breath from her lungs when she tried to move.
"Don't," a voice said immediately.
She froze.
Stone ceiling. Low light. A small room—bare, narrow, nothing like the places readers were meant to linger in. The smell of damp cloth and something bitter hung in the air.
He was sitting on the floor beside the bed.
Not watching her.
Guarding.
"What happened?" she asked. Her throat felt raw, like she'd been screaming in her sleep.
"You passed out," he said. "The courtyard reset. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
He didn't answer right away. He reached for a bowl near the bed, dipped a cloth into it, then paused—hesitating—before placing it carefully against her ribs.
She hissed despite herself.
"Sorry," he muttered. "But if it swells, it gets worse."
She clenched her jaw and nodded once. The pain grounded her in a way fear hadn't.
"I changed it," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"And you didn't get hurt."
"No."
"That means—"
"It means," he interrupted, finally looking at her, "the story took something else instead."
Her stomach dropped.
"What did it take?"
He held her gaze. Didn't soften it.
"You."
The word landed heavier than the injury.
"You were never supposed to be part of that scene," he continued. "So when you interfered, the story had to balance itself."
She swallowed. "By hurting me?"
"By anchoring you," he said. "You're not drifting through anymore."
Her fingers curled into the thin blanket. "What does that mean?"
"It means you can bleed here," he replied. "You can be injured. And if you die—" He stopped.
"Finish it."
"If you die here," he said, voice flat, "there's no page to wake up on."
Silence filled the room.
She stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. This wasn't panic. Panic was loud. This was cold and precise and terrifying in a quieter way.
"So I'm stuck," she said.
"For now."
"And the story knows me."
"Yes."
She turned her head to look at him. "You said you thought the same thing once. That it wasn't real."
His jaw tightened.
"That was a long time ago."
"You're not just a character," she said slowly. "You're something else."
He didn't deny it.
"The story keeps people like me," he said. "Those who survive long enough to notice the rules."
Her chest tightened—not from pain this time.
"And what are the rules?" she asked.
He stood, placing the cloth aside. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"Don't arrive where you're not written.
Don't change scenes without paying.
And never assume the story wants a better ending."
Her grip tightened on the blanket.
"What does it want, then?"
He looked at her.
"To finish."
A distant bell rang—low, deliberate.
Not an alarm.
A reminder.
He moved toward the door, then stopped.
"You saved me back there," he said, without turning around. "But understand this."
"What?"
The door creaked open.
"Next time the story corrects itself," he said, "it won't hesitate."
The door shut.
She lay there in the dim room, pain pulsing in time with her heartbeat, one truth settling heavily over her.
She hadn't escaped into a book.
She had been claimed by it.