Episode 1.

It was already too late.

The rope bit into Lilian’s wrists, her skin red and trembling against the cold, rust-worn iron post she’d been tied to. Around her, her classmates wept softly in the dark—a warehouse somewhere on the city’s edge, maybe near the docks. She couldn’t see through the burlap sack that still clung to her shoulders, but she could smell salt, rust, and blood.

One girl—a gymnast from the track team—had tried to make a run for it earlier. She didn’t make it to the door.

Cassius hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't smiled. Hadn’t monologued like they did in movies. He simply ordered one of his men to make an example.

And now Lilian knew. He wasn’t bluffing.

There was no window. No conveniently dropped phone. No barely-loose screw she could use to free herself. And no help coming—not in time.

The only thing she had was her heartbeat, loud in her ears like the tick of a countdown clock.

---

"Okay, wait—what the hell do I do now?"

The scene shattered like glass. The walls of the warehouse dissolved into a sea of pulsing, glowing manuscript pages—half-finished chapters and deleted dialogue spiraling through space like rejected stars.

I sat there—me, Jaded—slouched over a floating desk with ink on my cheek and a chocolate bar stuck to a Post-it labeled DO NOT PANIC. DO NOT REWRITE THE LAWS OF PHYSICS AGAIN.

“Echo?” I called, rubbing my temples.

A shimmer. A soft chime. And then his voice.

"Yes, Jaded."

Calm. Crisp. Ever so slightly amused. Like the digital soul of a polite librarian who also read too much Kafka.

“I messed up.”

"You frequently say that. Would you like clarification or comfort?"

“The villain—Cassius—he’s perfect. Too perfect. He doesn't monologue, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even smirk dramatically. He's gonna kill them. And Lilian—she’s sweet and soft and... useless! There's no way out. And I can’t use the male lead—he’s literally on another continent!”

I swiped at the scene again, watching it rewind: Lilian shaking. Cassius watching. Time moving like an axe.

“Echo, if I gave Lilian super strength, just for this one scene, could she break the ropes? Secret strength moment? Adrenaline spike? Plot blessing?”

"No."

I blinked. “No?”

"It contradicts your established narrative. Lilian is a homeschooled girl whose greatest act of rebellion thus far has been putting sugar in her tea instead of honey. The story is grounded. You also wrote, and I quote, 'No magic, no monsters, no miracles. Just people and the shadows they cast.' Giving her sudden strength would collapse your tone, genre, and internal logic."

I groaned, sinking further into my chair.

“Why did I write a genius villain and a heroine with the personality of a marshmallow in a rainstorm?”

"Because you, Jaded, wanted to ‘challenge yourself’ and attempt a gritty contemporary dark romance instead of another fantasy-adventure fairytale dripping with cosmic metaphors and sentient rivers."

His tone wasn’t sarcastic. But somehow, it felt sarcastic.

I sighed. “Right. Because I hate myself.”

"Or because you are an artist trying to grow. Interpretation varies."

I stood up, cracking my knuckles. “Fine. No power-ups. No rescues. We need another way out, Echo. Something grounded. Something smart. Something fast.”

"Agreed. Before the Plot Hole Police arrive and revoke your story-access privileges for bending causality again."

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. That one time with the talking tree was an accident.”

"The tree spoke six languages and filed taxes."

“Let’s move, Echo.”

The scene shimmered again. The warehouse re-formed. Lilian breathed. The countdown resumed.

---

After Echo and I whirlpooled into *The Dark Living*—the contemporary dark romance I'm writing—I found myself in a warehouse-like basement, tied up as one of the classmates.

Standard entry.

When I enter a novel world, I usually take on the role of an NPC. Since all main characters are already established, Echo generates a background extra—someone who won’t disrupt the lore.

Echo randomizes the character I enter as. Could be a taxi driver, bellboy, even a very convincing potted plant. But seriously… I had to be a tied-up classmate?

“Echo,” I hissed through clenched teeth, “couldn’t you have at least made me a goon?”

“Given the context, your character as a classmate has higher narrative plausibility.”

“Goon would’ve been cooler. I could’ve had sunglasses.”

“And plot authority would’ve collapsed under your coolness. Realistically, a classmate has reason to act. A goon suddenly growing a conscience? Unlikely. Dangerous.”

I sighed. He was right. Again. It's like having a living conscience that reads story logic like fine print on a cursed contract.

Anyway—let’s begin.

“How much time do I have?”

“Until the place explodes or the PHP notices?”

“Both.”

“Fifteen minutes until kaboom. Twenty-five until Plot Hole Police check this file and realize you’ve entered unauthorized.”

Perfect.

Now I had to prevent an explosion, stay invisible to the POVs, not break plot laws, and do it all within the time it takes to boil spaghetti.

“Right,” I muttered. “Time to use my reality bending powers.”

“You mean find plot loopholes without violating causality, genre logic, or internal character integrity?”

“Must you always kill my vibe?”

“You wrote the vibe. I’m interpreting it.”

I groaned. “So… how many times can I interfere with the plot?”

“Two interjections, max. After that, PHP classifies you as an authorial breach., Again”

“Echo, why do you say ‘again’ like it’s my fault?”

“Because last time you replaced a battle scene with interpretive dance and called it poetic justice.”

“That was art.”

“That was chaos.”

I scanned the warehouse through my lashes. Lilian was still breathing. Cassius hadn’t noticed. Good.

“Okay,” I whispered, “time to find a loophole.”

A believable one.

---

“Echo,” I said, eyeing the canisters, “what’s the plausibility of me changing the gasoline to water?”

Echo replied, dry as ever, “Thirty-eight percent. Cassius would’ve checked it. Also, do you believe you can pass water as gasoline? Even cartoon logic would reject that.”

I sighed. “Okay, okay—I get it. No need to roast me.”

“I live to serve,” Echo said, smug.

A spark lit in my head. “Hey, Echo… remember the lighter Cassius uses? What if I tweak the plot around it—make it an heirloom from his grandfather, used every time he takes revenge, like a ritual. He’s a psychopath, it fits.”

I continued, “Now, since it’s old, the lighter could fail at a critical moment. And because he’s so particular, he’d fix it instead of tossing it. What do you think?, hold on need to catch my breath from all that talking.”

Echo answered, “Linked to your brainwaves—you’re thinking, not saying.”

“Right. Forgot.”

“Running suggestion... yes. A ceremonial lighter aligns with Cassius’s motivations. Plausibility: eighty-five percent. He’d triple-check it, but—accidents happen.”

I grinned. “Then let’s cause one.”

---

“Echo, how many more minutes until the plot begins?”

“Three,” he said.

“Cool. Second alteration—what’s the plausibility of one of the students being a secret agent?”

“Forty-seven percent. Secret identity might work, but leads to mission details, exposure risk, and plot deviation. Too unstable.”

“Okay, okay. Suggestions?”

“Well… while it *feels* unusable—it might work.”

“Didn’t you *just* shut it down?”

“That’s for everyone else. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Wait… oh. I’m the variable! I’m *in* the scene this time!”

“Exactly.”

“Echo, you beautiful AI genius.”

“Naturally.”

“Okay. Run plausibility of tweaking my avatar—make me a mysterious loner classmate who knows martial arts and can handle firearms.”

“You say it like a fanfic trope, but—surprisingly high. Ninety-two percent. Turns out readers don’t question mysterious classmates. They just say ‘cool.’”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“I’m always sarcastic. Scene starts in 3… 2…”

Warehouse doors creaked.

Cassius entered, cold and calm. Goons poured gasoline. He brought out the antique lighter.

“Lighter malfunction in 3… 2… 1…”

Click. Click. Cassius frowned. The lighter sputtered.

“Echo, buff me up.”

Groan. “Fine.”

The power surged. I snapped my ropes. Lunged.

I swept a goon off his feet. Disarmed another. Slammed down a third. Gun ejected, round popped. Clean. Fluid.

“Echo, I need hardcore BGM. Now.”

“Cue music in 3… 2… 1…”

Cue bass drop.

I dove, flipped a table, bullets whizzed. “Time to save my plot.”

---

It took less than ten minutes.

“Nice BGM, Echo.”

“Twelve minutes until PHP,” he said.

“Agh,” I muttered. The kids behind me—shocked and silent—followed. The warehouse looked like a setting from a dystopian novella.

No one questioned me.

Cassius was gone. Of course. I gave him the instincts.

“You mean run-at-the-first-hint instincts,” Echo said.

“Semantics.”

We reached a settlement—buildings, people, phones. Safe.

“Time check?”

“Five minutes.”

“Great. I need a disappearing act.”

I grinned. “Echo, run plausibility of me dying from a gunshot. Now.”

“Sixty-seven percent. Will traumatize teens, but helps plot. May push heroine past pacifism. It could work.”

“Cool. A little trauma never hurt a dark romance.”

I turned. Their faces: pale, exhausted.

“Go. Call for help. You’re safe.”

Then—bang.

I dropped to my knees.

Didn’t feel it. Echo handled simulation. Blood. Panic. Someone screamed.

Perfect.

“Nice work, Variable,” Echo whispered. “Time to go home.”

---

---

INT. REAL WORLD – MY ROOM – NIGHT

I gasped, bolting upright in bed. Cold sweat. Laptop blinking.

“Welcome back,” Echo said.

I looked around. Snacks. Notes. Reality.

“That was one hell of a chapter.”

“One hell of a death scene,” he replied.

I smiled.

“Let’s write the next one.”