4. I Wrote It

Char ducked into the nearest doorway, his heart pounding like a drum against his ribs. The scent of spiced ale and something vaguely charred hit him as he stumbled into the dimly lit tavern.

Wooden beams arched over his head, lined with flickering lanterns that cast shadows over a crowd of patrons hunched over drinks. A low hum of conversation filled the space, punctuated by the occasional clink of mugs.

This was The Rusted Phoenix.

Char knew it immediately. He had written this place—a smoky, low-lit hideout on the edge of the city, where mercenaries, informants, and desperate souls gathered under the pretense of drinking but rarely left without a deal being struck.

His feet carried him toward a corner booth before he even processed it, slipping into the shadows where the flickering lanternlight barely reached. His mind raced.

The next scene.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to remember.

This was where Callen and Marin met their first informant. A nameless contact—Char had never gotten far enough to flesh them out—who was supposed to give them their next lead. But the real moment, the thing that had mattered in this scene, was the tension. Marin had never trusted Callen. Callen had never cared. And Char had written this moment to press them together, to force them into that uneasy alliance that would eventually—

The tavern door creaked open.

Char's eyes snapped to the entrance just as Callen and Marin stepped inside.

The thief and the enigma.

Marin's sharp gaze swept the room, scanning for threats. Callen, in contrast, strolled in like he owned the place, easy confidence in every step, his dark boots barely making a sound against the worn floorboards. He had that same smirk—like he was always in on a joke no one else could hear.

Char shrank further into the shadows, his pulse hammering.

This is playing out exactly as I wrote it.

Marin murmured something to Callen, and he responded with a lazy shrug. They were heading toward the bar now, their conversation just out of reach.

Char's head throbbed.

At first, it was a dull pressure behind his eyes, but with every second that passed, it grew.

A memory slotted into place—an unfinished paragraph, an incomplete thought.

Callen leans on the counter, smirking as Marin orders. She keeps her back straight, voice clipped, always in control. He makes a comment, something teasing, something to get a reaction. She ignores him.

As the words took form in his mind, a sharp spike of pain shot through his skull.

Too clear. Too real.

The pressure burned, pulsing like an unseen force pressing against his brain.

Marin's voice cut through the fog, crisp and unmistakable:

"We don't have time for your games, Callen."

And just like that—like a snapped wire—the pressure flared.

Char gasped, gripping the edge of the table. His vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges.

I know what happens next.

The scene was unfolding, word for word, moment for moment—because he had written it.

He tried to move, to push himself away from the booth, but his limbs were sluggish, weighed down by something unseen. He needed to get out of here. He needed to—

The pain sharpened, a hot brand behind his eyes.

He staggered to his feet, but the movement sent his vision spinning. The room tilted, his balance swaying out of control. His knees buckled.

Then—

A startled gasp. A sharp impact.

Char barely registered colliding with something—someone—before the world plunged into darkness.