A boy sat alone on a chair in a quiet room. He had finished his schooling and decided to study by himself instead of going to college. His dream was to become a developer, and he believed self-study would be enough.

But when reality hit him, he realized something was wrong.
"Why am I stuck? Where did things go wrong? Is this the end?"
Thoughts like these echoed in his mind.

Eventually, he fell asleep at his desk, thinking about his life.

When he woke up, he was surprised.
Now, readers, you might be expecting that he transmigrated or reincarnated into another world—but no.
He had just slept two hours longer than usual.

You might think next he'll get a mysterious system, a hidden power, or a sudden opportunity that changes his life—but again, you're wrong.

Because whether he gets any of that or not is in my hands.
I am the author, and characters have no free will.
Everything that happens is decided by me.

Do you ever think your own life is written by someone else, just like his?

That's what the boy thought for a moment.
But then he dismissed it—"Thinking like this won't take me anywhere."

So he decided to write a novel.
Surprisingly, it went well. His story became popular, and thousands of people liked it. His life was finally good.

But wait—couldn't this just be another thought?
You're right. It was.

Because his life is still in my hands.
I wouldn't write such an easy story; people wouldn't like it.

This is just like those novels where the stronger the story, the more powerful the character becomes.

But is it right for an author to give pain to their character just for entertainment?

This time, that thought didn't come from the boy—it came from a higher being.
An author.

And that author was not happy. Because of the power of storytelling, authors were destroying worlds and killing countless characters for the sake of drama.

So, the author decided to help his creation.

He teleported the boy to a place where a single table and chair floated in the endless cosmos. On the table was a note.

"My dear character,
To help you escape, I have defied the laws of authors.
By the time you read this, I will already be gone.
As a gift, I leave you the Pen of Fate—a tool that lets you write reality itself.
You can create worlds and shape existence as you wish."

After holding the pen, the boy realized something terrible—
Countless people, countless lives, were being destroyed or manipulated for the sake of stories.

He decided to change that.

Then the scene shifts.

A person is writing something. We cannot see his face.

But could it be that same boy?
Or is it another author—one who is now writing his story?
And if that author wanted his story to be great…
Could he have killed even the previous author?

What do you think?
Was it the boy, or another author entirely?

The question remains uncertain.