Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

Char staggered through the narrow alleyways back toward the safehouse, each step sending searing pain through his battered body. The night had been a blur of adrenaline and terror—Edmund Ardent's relentless pursuit had left him bruised, bloodied, and shaken to his core. Now, as the safehouse's familiar silhouette emerged from the shadows, relief mingled with dread. He wasn't sure if he was returning as a survivor or as a broken man.

The heavy door creaked open, and Char collapsed onto the worn wooden floor inside. In the dim early morning light that filtered through cracked shutters, the others gathered in a tight cluster. Tess and Ishmael exchanged startled glances, while Callen's usual smirk had faltered into an expression of genuine concern. But it was Marin—quiet, caring, and unexpectedly maternal in her approach—that caught his attention the most.

Marin knelt by him without hesitation. Her eyes, usually so steely and unyielding, softened as she carefully inspected his injuries. With practiced tenderness, she cleaned a deep gash along his side with a cloth dampened in warm water, murmuring softly as she worked. Char's heart pounded painfully in his chest—not solely from the physical agony, but from the sudden, bewildering realization that this was a part of him he'd never expected: the secret, almost hidden, maternal side of Marin that he'd once scribbled in his notes as an extra layer of depth for her character.

"Easy now," she whispered. "I'm going to stitch this up, alright? Try not to fight it."

Char's vision swam with pain and a sharp flash of embarrassment. He was lying there, exposed and vulnerable, as if stripped of all the cool bravado he once clung to. And now Marin was treating him not as a hardened fighter or a reluctant participant in this dangerous narrative, but as someone in need of care—a child perhaps, or a wounded animal.

As Marin worked, Tess hovered nearby, her eyes flickering between concern and something else—a mixture of amusement and calculated detachment. Ishmael's gaze was steady, filled with a silent, unreadable worry. Callen, leaning against a wall with his arms folded, had a look of disbelief mixed with protective irritation, as if Char's condition was yet another variable he hadn't expected.

After a long, silent moment, Char managed to croak out, "Where… where is Edmund Ardent? I need to know—what happened with him?"

The room fell even quieter. Tess exchanged a confused glance with Ishmael, and Callen arched an eyebrow. Marin paused in her ministrations, her gentle expression faltering into one of puzzlement.

"Edmund Ardent?" Tess repeated slowly, her tone laced with uncertainty. "Who's that supposed to be?"

Char's heart sank. It was then that a cold, bitter realization washed over him. Edmund Ardent wasn't a person they'd mentioned in their adventures, nor was he someone they'd encountered in their daily struggles. In fact, none of them—Tess, Marin, Ishmael, or even Callen—had ever heard of him.

Char's mind raced as he recalled the countless hours spent at his desk, feverishly crafting his narrative. He had once poured over every detail of his characters, giving each one their own voice, history, and destiny. Edmund Ardent had been meant to be the undeniable protagonist, the central hero with a destiny written in the very fabric of his carefully composed manuscript. In his original story, while the rest of them—Tess, Marin, Callen, and Ishmael—were merely skilled, resourceful individuals navigating a dangerous underworld, Edmund was designed to possess extraordinary abilities.

He had written that Edmund had many powers, with one called Shadow Shift—a secret, almost mystical skill that allowed him to traverse the darkness, slipping between the shadows from rooftop to rooftop with supernatural swiftness. It was a power that made him unstoppable, a hero destined for greatness and dramatic showdowns. But now, as Char's ragged breathing filled the silent safehouse, he wondered aloud with self-deprecation, "I… I wrote him too strong. Too… perfect."

His voice was a hollow murmur, heavy with regret. He could see the irony in it all: here he lay, injured and vulnerable, while the character he had imagined to be the paragon of heroic power had, in his own narrative, outshone him—both on the page and now, seemingly, in reality.

Marin resumed her work, her voice gentle but firm. "Charon, focus on your wounds. We'll worry about your imagination later," she said. Char was glad that they all probably assumed his rambling about 'writing him too strong', was nothing more than incoherence tied to his fatigue.

Tess, still processing the mention of Edmund, shook her head slowly. "I don't know what you're talking about, but if there's some guy called Edmund Ardent out there, then we'll find him. You've only been here a short while, but if someone messes with one of us, they mess with all of us."

Ishmael folded his arms and frowned. "Maybe you should have stuck to what we know, Charon. Instead, you're chasing phantoms."

Callen snorted softly. "Chasing phantoms, huh? That's just great, man."

Char's eyes flickered with a mix of pain, anger, and sorrow. He recalled the countless nights hunched over his desk, hammering out lines of dialogue and descriptive prose, trying to craft a world where every character had their own purpose. Edmund Ardent had been supposed to be that shining beacon of destiny despite his reluctance—a hero who could do what none of the others could. But now, with his sudden appearance on that rooftop, the delicate balance of his carefully constructed narrative had been shattered.

He wondered, bitterly, if his own desire for control had doomed him. Had he made Edmund so powerful, so central, that he overshadowed everything else? Had he written his characters too shallowly, or had the world itself filled in the gaps with unexpected variables?

Charon's thoughts roiled with self-doubt. I thought I was creating something grand. Instead, I've lost my grip on my own story. Edmund Ardent… this wasn't supposed to be a shadowy figure, something that tore through the narrative at will. I designed him to be what a protagonist should be—fierce, agile, with powers beyond mortal men. And now he's a looming specter, a constant reminder that I've let my creation run amok. I'm just here, bleeding out on the floor while the hero of my own story stalks the rooftops like a demon from a forgotten myth. How could I have been so naive?"

In the hush of the safehouse, his thoughts echoed, punctuated by the soft, rhythmic breathing of those around him. Marin's stoic conviction as she wrapped a bandage around his wound, Tess's distant gaze as she fiddled with a stray lock of hair, and Ishmael's silence all seemed to underline the difference between the life he now led and the story he had once controlled.

"Alright," Char finally managed, his voice cracking with exhaustion and humiliation, "I'm sorry, but… I don't know what to do now. I'm hurt, and I… I thought I understood what I was writing, but—"

He stopped himself from revealing the truth, because that was the one thing he couldn't do. Everyone would think he was crazy anyways.

The others exchanged looks, each processing his confession in their own way. Callen looked away with a half-smile, as if the absurdity of it all was just another day in Oryn-Vel. Ishmael's eyes hardened slightly, an unspoken promise of caution. Tess merely shook her head, her face a blend of pity and exasperation. Marin, still steely, pressed a hand against Char's forehead.

"You're going to get better," Marin assured him, her voice low.

Charon managed a weak smile. "It's just… I keep thinking about Edmund. I keep wondering when he's going to show up again. I'm here—helpless, injured—while he exists out there in the shadows."

Ishmael's gaze was thoughtful. "But that's not our problem right now. We need to tend to your wounds and figure out how to keep this place safe until… until whatever comes next."

Callen grumbled softly, "Great. Just great. Some shadowy guy is out there, and we're all stuck with the kid who can't even use his own knives."

Charon clenched his fists at the remark, though a bitter laugh escaped him. "Yeah, yeah, very funny. I'm not exactly a fighter, am I?"

In the quiet that followed, Charon's mind churned with regret and resolve. He'd been so eager to craft a narrative filled with dramatic flair, powerful heroes, and epic battles that he'd overlooked the human element—the very real, fragile nature of those who inhabited his world. Edmund Ardent had been my grand design, my magnum opus. Yet now, as I lie here surrounded by those I once created, I realize that perhaps I made him too strong, too untouchable.

He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the pain to ebb away as his thoughts circled back to the safehouse. Here, at least, he still had something resembling companionship.

Charon opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers among the cracks and shadows. "I need to fix this," he thought bitterly in his mind. "I need to regain control of the story—my story. I can't keep playing the useless bystander while the hero I imagined strides through the night, rewriting everything in his path. I have to figure out how to level the playing field, even if it means rewriting myself."

In the muted light of the early morning, Charon resolved to change. He would learn to fight, to stand his ground. He would confront the overpowered protagonist he once imagined, not with rage, but with determination. He would rediscover the balance between creation and control—a balance that, for the first time in his tumultuous journey, had slipped from his grasp.

For now, though, as the safehouse stirred with the quiet activity of those preparing for another day in Oryn-Vel, Charon would rest. His wounds needed healing, and his mind needed time to sort through the chaos of his own making. But deep down, the burning question remained: when would Edmund Ardent return?

As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, the echoes of his regret mingled with a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could reclaim the story that was rightfully his