I open my eyes not to sky, but to a blade screaming toward my face. I roll. Pure instinct. The sword crashes into stone, sparks showering white. The smell hits me next—blood, hot iron, and screams that no longer sound human. My hands. These aren't my hands. These scars, these calluses. A second ago, there was a gun to my temple. The stranger's eyes—two chips of ice in a burning world. He pulled the trigger. Now this. A shadow swallows me whole. A hulk of meat and rage, a warhammer resting on his shoulder. His mouth opens, and hell pours out. Words I don't understand. But I don't need translation. The meaning slams into my skull: "Goodbye, author." Author. The word detonates. This hammer. This monster. This battle roar. I wrote all of it. Every nightmare, every fever-dream I poured onto the page—it's real now. This is my world. And that thing standing before me, is a scene from my own novel. The Final Battle. Page 743. The chapter I finished last night. The one where the hero dies. I never sent it to my editor. I can still change the ending. But where's the pen? Where's the keyboard? The warhammer rises. The roar peaks. And I'm standing in my own story, turning the page with no idea what's written on the other side. All I hear is the gunshot. And that damn pause before death. "Are you lost little bunny?"