Merlot sat on a black swivel chair in front of typewriter and saw Lolita—just as he’d written her. She wore a pink slip dress, her 40D breasts too large for her delicate frame. Scars, the work of surgeons who’d reshaped her into something unreal, traced faint lines beneath the silk.

She didn’t speak. In her world, Merlot was the ghost.

He watched her from the edge of the scene—disembodied, invisible, present only as a weight in the air. That’s how he entered the world of his characters: not as their god, but as their haunt.

Lolita turned slightly, as if sensing something just beyond her field of vision. Merlot ached to speak to her, to apologize for what he’d made her into. But that wasn’t how it worked.

He would return to her later, drifting into the next chapter like smoke. For now, he had other work: the Sangria War needed resolution, and his manuscript had grown unwieldy—bloated and bloodstained with too many plotlines.

A voice haunted him. Not Lolita’s, but the sneering echo of the wannabe author.

You’ve nowhere to be, Merlot, the voice taunted. You need flesh to have a life—not ink.

The words hit like a punch to the gut, sharp and familiar. Merlot clenched his fists, knuckles whitening.

Shut up! Merlot thought, his mind loud and defensive. I don’t have time for you—not when I have a meeting with my professor.

“You’re transgender because you’re trying to be someone you aren’t.”

 Fuck off! Merlot snapped. I’ve been transgender all my life. You’re the one trying to copy me! He rose from his chair, rage spilling over.

In the bathroom, the shower hissed steam, climbing the tiles. It couldn’t rinse the guilt that clung like damp rot.

Back at the typewriter, his fingers shook. The page glared blank, accusing. He tried to focus on his next assignment: James’ political speech to Ossory’s citizens, a story his professor expected by morning. The words wouldn’t come. He pictured James—confident, articulate, everything Merlot felt he wasn’t—standing before a restless crowd, promising change. But Merlot froze, unable to bridge the gap between his own uncertainty and the certainty his character demanded.

The real war wasn’t on the page—it was here, in the clash of character and creator, flesh and ink, truth and the lies he told himself. Was he the author, or just another story being written? Merlot stared at the blank page, heart pounding, and wondered if he would ever find his way back into the stories that once saved him—or if he would remain forever at the mercy of that other voice, the one that claimed to be the real author, echoing in his mind.