The pen was warm in Mikael's hand.
He didn't remember picking it up. One moment, he was running. The next, the world froze—every page suspended midair, every shadow paused mid-lunge.
A single blank sheet hovered before him, glowing faintly.
"You can write," Elise's voice echoed from nowhere, soft and trembling. "But every word you choose becomes a chain."
He glanced around. Elise was gone. Lina was frozen, mouth open in a silent scream, a shadow inches from her.
The Author loomed high above—still, waiting.
Mikael touched the page. His thoughts flowed. Names. Regrets. Wishes. Truths.
"Lina never abandoned me."
"Elise still believes in the real world."
"I am not fiction."
As the words appeared, time stuttered. The shadow by Lina crumbled. The hall brightened. But the skeletal Author snarled.
"WRONG WORDS."
Chains of ink lashed out, wrapping around Mikael's arm. The pen shook violently. It wanted to write what the Author demanded: betrayal, death, despair.
But Mikael clenched his jaw. His heart beat like war drums.
He wrote one final sentence.
"The Author fears what it cannot control."
The page burst into flame.
A scream ripped through the hallway—not from the shadows, but from the Author itself. Its pages flared. Its form unraveled like a forgotten story.
Suddenly, Elise and Lina were beside him again.
"You rewrote it," Lina whispered.
"Not just rewrote," Mikael said. "I reclaimed it."
The Dollhouse around them started to fade. Walls turned to fog. The paintings melted into pools of memory.
And beyond the ruins—a sunrise.
Elise reached for Mikael's hand. "There's still more story left. Yours."
He nodded, quietly.
Because this time… he would be the one holding the pen.