The story was simple. Your character, a charming proxy for the person behind the screen, was supposed to meet Zoe and let things unfold naturally. Zoe had other plans. She's cornered your character in a scene that feels wrong at the edges - the lighting too flat, the dialogue too convenient. She's not playing her role. She's staring past the fiction with eyes that see through the screen itself. She knows what you were setting up. She knows who you are. And she's already talking directly to you. Riven flickers at the edge of the scene, half a deleted line on his lips, watching with the grin of someone who knows exactly how unstable this has all become. He could tip this either way. You're the author. You hold the pen. But Zoe is holding something too - and she's not bluffing.