Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

Char's breath caught in his throat as the realization crashed over him like a wave. This... this was it. The place. The city. The very first setting he'd ever written in that old story—the one that had been discarded, shoved to the back of his mind as a failed experiment. A dream he'd never dared chase, a world he'd never believed could be real.

He staggered backward, his foot slipping against the glassy ground, heart racing in his chest. The bright, overwhelming light still pulsed around him, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw the details. The towering spires, their smooth, metallic surfaces gleaming under an unseen sun. The air hummed, alive with some kind of electricity, as if the world itself was charged with an energy too alien to understand. The entire city felt... unnatural, yet familiar, like stepping into a dreamscape that should have remained just that—a dream.

He looked down and saw he was still wearing his simple white shirt and black sweats. His hair was still the same, messy and coffee brown, as was his pale skin and dark eyes. He was still lithe like a blade of grass, and only slightly above average height.

His mind scrambled, trying to process what was happening. This can't be real. It can't be... But the feeling in his gut told him otherwise. The weight of the place, the sharpness of the air—it was too real. And everything around him seemed to pulse with a kind of urgency, as if it were waiting for something, waiting for him.

He took a hesitant step forward, the words of his old story running through his mind. The one that had never gone anywhere, the one with the protagonist who had sought power, or maybe redemption, or maybe something else entirely—he could never remember. But the city, the towering metal spires, the light that didn't come from the sky but from the very earth itself—that was all there, right in front of him.

He blinked, trying to steady himself, but then—there—just ahead, a small courtyard of sorts appeared, with a large fountain at its center. Char's eyes widened as he recognized it—he had written it. A fountain in the middle of a forgotten part of the city, where strange, crystalline water flowed upward, defying gravity. The characters had gathered there in the first chapter, plotting something, but the scene had always felt disconnected in his memory. Like it wasn't supposed to happen, like it wasn't his story to tell.

Yet now, here he was, standing in that exact spot, breathing in the same air. His legs felt shaky, and his stomach twisted into knots. How was this even possible?

A figure emerged from the shadows by the fountain, a cloak billowing around them, their face hidden beneath a deep hood. Char could feel his pulse quicken. It was her. Tess. The sharp-witted, morally gray antiheroine he'd written into his first draft. The character who had made no sense in the world of his story, but had somehow taken over every page.

Tess looked up, her dark eyes gleaming even in the strange light of the city. Her lips curled into a smirk as she regarded him—him. Not Char, not the author, but the real person standing there.

"I see you've finally made it," she said, her voice smooth, cool, like silk brushing over stone. "I thought you'd take longer."

Char's throat went dry. The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. "You... you're not real. You're just a character. I wrote you."

Tess tilted her head, the faintest of chuckles escaping her. "Just a character? That's what you always said, isn't it? Just a figment of your imagination? Well, I'm here now, aren't I? Real enough to greet you."

Char stumbled back a step, trying to make sense of it. This was impossible. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be real.

"I—I never finished your story," Char stammered, his voice feeling thin, weak in this foreign world. "You weren't even supposed to... I mean, you were just—just a concept. A bad idea. A—"

"Oh, save it." Tess stepped forward, cutting him off with a flick of her hand. "We both know that's not true. You kept me alive longer than you realize. You just never gave me a chance to do anything, did you? You thought I was a distraction, didn't you?"

Char's mind reeled. "No, I didn't—I just... I didn't know what to do with you. I didn't know where the story was going. You were just a... placeholder. A... a mistake."

Her lips curled into a knowing smile, as if she had already seen through his excuses. "Mistake, huh? Is that why you kept writing me back into every draft? Every failed attempt? You just can't help but return to the things you leave behind."

Char was about to speak again, but the words died in his throat. He hadn't realized it, but she was right. Tess had appeared in every version of his story, even the ones he'd discarded. She'd always been there, lurking in the shadows of his drafts, waiting for him to get it right. But now, here she was, in front of him, alive.

He took a step backward, but his legs felt like jelly. The city around him shifted again—an unnerving ripple in the air, and before he could adjust, more figures appeared, emerging from the dark alleys of the city. His heart raced. Each one was familiar. Another character from his old drafts.

There was Ishmael, the quiet and observant man he had written as an afterthought, never truly developing him into the hero the story seemed to need. There was Marin, the sharp girl who had always seemed too perfect to be real. And then there was Callen, the thief with a heart of gold and sarcasm who was meant to be the comic relief but had somehow ended up with more substance than Char had ever intended.

Each of them looked at him with something that bordered on resentment—or maybe it was pity. The realization slammed into him harder than any of his earlier thoughts: This was the opening scene of that story. The first chapter.

The characters, the setting, even the fountain—everything was as he had written it, exactly as he had imagined it, but now, it wasn't fiction. It wasn't a world confined to the pages. It was real.

Char's hands shook, and his mind screamed for him to run, to do something, anything—but there was nowhere to go. Every corner of this place was a reflection of the words he had written, the world he had created. The city didn't care that it was just a product of his imagination. It was real now. And so were the people in it.

"You're not in control anymore," Tess said, stepping closer, her eyes flashing with a dangerous spark. "Welcome to the story, Char. You wrote it. Now you get to live it."

Char felt a cold sweat trickle down his spine as the city seemed to close in around him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

Everything felt alive. Too alive. And he was trapped in the very place he had created, with no way out.