Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The lantern's glow barely reached past the edges of the clearing, flickering against the gnarled roots and crumbling stone ruins surrounding them. Charon slowed his steps, unease curling in his gut. The Whispers had always been a place of ghosts, but this? This felt different. More real. More alive than he'd ever imagined it.

Ishmael didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his boots silent on the damp earth, until he was directly under the light's reach. "Rook."

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, from the shadows beyond the lantern's glow, a figure emerged.

He was lean, taller than Charon expected, with an easy, fluid grace to his movements. The way he carried himself spoke of experience—the kind that came from a life of dodging knives in the dark. His dark hair was streaked with strands of silver, though he didn't look old. His face was sharp, angular, the kind of face that was either forgettable or striking depending on how long you looked at it.

Charon frowned. There was something wrong. Something he couldn't place.

Then Rook spoke.

"Ishmael." His voice was smooth, confident, carrying a quiet amusement. "Didn't think I'd see you again so soon. What happened—missed me?"

Ishmael smirked. "Wouldn't say that. Just had a couple of questions. And a favor to cash in."

Rook's gaze flickered to Charon. His expression didn't change, but Charon felt the weight of it settle on him, sharp and calculating.

"And this?" Rook asked, tilting his head. "New friend of yours?"

Ishmael glanced at Charon. "Something like that."

"Lucky you." Rook's voice was unreadable. "Not many people would call you a friend."

Charon barely heard the exchange.

Because his mind was stuck on one glaring fact.

He didn't know this man.

Rook wasn't his.

Every other character he had met—Marin, Callen, Ishmael, Tess, even the nameless server at the restaurant—they were his. He had created them, given them life through ink and half-finished ideas, even if the details had blurred over time.

But Rook?

Rook had never existed in his story.

A chill crawled down Charon's spine.

The world was filling in the blanks.

He had suspected as much when he saw how things were shifting—how events he had outlined were unfolding differently, how details he had never decided on were there, fully formed. But this? This was proof. The world wasn't just following his script. It was changing. Evolving beyond him.

It was no longer his story.

Charon forced himself to keep his expression neutral, though his mind reeled with the realization. He needed to think. Needed to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

He needed to get home.

His gaze flickered to Ishmael, then back to Rook.

For now, the only lead he had was the storyline itself.

Follow the plot. At least until—until He appears.

Charon exhaled, trying to steady himself. He'd figure it out. He had to.

"Are we going to stand out here all night," Ishmael asked, crossing his arms, "or are you going to let us in?"

Rook studied them for another moment, then let out a quiet chuckle. "Always so impatient." He turned, motioning for them to follow. "Come on, then. But if you're bringing trouble to my doorstep, I expect fair warning next time."

He led them past the lantern, deeper into the ruins. The further they walked, the thicker the vegetation became, vines creeping along the broken stones, nature reclaiming what was once lost.

Then Rook stopped in front of what looked like just another crumbling wall. He crouched, brushing away dirt and leaves, revealing a hidden latch. With a practiced motion, he pulled, and the ground beneath the wall groaned open, revealing a dark passageway leading below.

Charon stared. "A bunker?"

Rook glanced at him. "Something like that."

Without another word, he descended into the darkness.

Ishmael followed.

Charon hesitated only a second before stepping forward. The heavy scent of earth and stone filled his nose as he climbed down into the unknown.

The passage sealed behind them, leaving the world above behind.