The Author's Shadow

The stars were watching again.

Kim Dokja could feel it—the way the sky seemed to tighten overhead, how the air pulsed with pressure just before another Scenario dropped like a guillotine. But this time, it wasn't just the system that made his skin crawl. It was the knowledge buried in his mind, the realization that the story he once trusted had twisted into something deeper, darker.

He stood at the edge of the ruined bridge, the Han River far below a silver scar under moonlight. Buildings lay in shattered silence behind him, survivors either sleeping, scheming, or dying in the night. But Dokja was still—frozen not by fear, but by thought.

The girl—the other reader—had vanished again.

They had parted after the last Scenario with uneasy truce. She had dropped a final sentence like a knife before slipping away:

"The audition begins soon. Make sure you're not the one being written out."

At first, he thought it was another cryptic metaphor, a riddle wrapped in cosmic paranoia. But then the dreams started.

He'd wake drenched in sweat, visions of ink-stained judges watching him from a celestial courtroom, their eyes blank, their hands holding the threads of his fate like fragile strings. Every dream ended the same way: with a pen hovering above his name, poised to erase.

And now, something stirred again.

[Main Scenario #4 – A Story Worth Writing]

Objective: Survive the Selection. Prove Your Narrative Value.

Time Limit: 72 hours

Eligible Participants: All active protagonists

Kim Dokja stared at the glowing message in the air. A faint chill crept down his spine.

This was new. This wasn't in the novel.

"Prove your narrative value?" he whispered. "What the hell does that mean?"

As if in answer, another figure stepped from the shadows. Not her this time—but someone else.

A Constellation.

No, not a true one—more like a puppet, a messenger of something higher. Its body shimmered with half-written words, as though it were made of sentences erased from some forgotten draft.

"You've been summoned," it intoned. "Your plot integrity is under review."

Before he could ask what that meant, reality folded. The bridge collapsed into black, the world vanished, and he was standing on a stage made of stars.

Thousands of figures sat in an invisible audience. Some wore masks, others were nothing but silhouettes. Floating above them, a single spotlight burned on the judge's desk. Behind it, a shadow loomed—its outline shaped like a quill.

"Kim Dokja," a voice echoed, omnipresent and cold. "Your story is no longer consistent. Your role as protagonist has been challenged."

He clenched his fists. "By who?"

A pause.

Then, behind him, footsteps.

She emerged into the light, her presence quiet but undeniable. Her eyes met his—calm, sharp, sad.

"I didn't ask for this," she said, voice steady. "But the story chose both of us. You read to the end, Kim Dokja. But I remembered what the ending tried to forget."

The judge's voice thundered again: "Two readers, one seat. One will inherit the pen. One will be cast aside."

A cosmic audition.

Dokja's breath caught. He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore—he was fighting for authorship. For reality itself.

"You want the role?" he asked her, trying to sound detached, but the words burned. "Why?"

Her gaze flickered. "Because you only saw what was written. I see what could've been."

The judge raised a hand, and suddenly the void cracked open into three scenarios—memories rewritten, futures unformed.

A trial of identity.

A test of sacrifice.

And the final challenge: write the ending.

"Begin," said the voice.

Without warning, they were dropped into the first scenario.

The world shifted. He was back in Seoul, but not the Seoul he remembered. It was bright. Clean. The Scenarios had never happened.

And he wasn't Kim Dokja the survivor. He was just… Kim Dokja.

An office worker.

A nobody.

Confused, he wandered the streets. No one recognized him. His phone worked. The subway ran. The world was intact.

But he felt hollow.

And then he saw her.

The other reader. She was watching him from across the street—dressed in civilian clothes, no traces of battle, power, or knowledge in her posture. Just a quiet observer.

She crossed to him.

"This is the first test," she said softly. "Would you choose this world over the one you bled for? A world without pain—but also without purpose?"

He hesitated.

The sky didn't crack. The system didn't speak. But deep down, he understood. This was about who he was without the story.

And he hated it.

"I can't live a lie," he whispered. "Even if it's safe."

The world shimmered—and fell away.

The second scenario was worse.

It was Yoo Joonghyuk, dying in his arms.

Bleeding, broken, betrayed.

And Dokja was given a choice: take his place and sacrifice himself—or let Joonghyuk die to preserve the story.

He turned to her. She watched from the distance again, not interfering.

"This is where we diverged," she said. "You believe the protagonist always survives."

He didn't answer.

He stepped forward—and chose death.

The blade pierced him, and time shattered.

The third scenario was the blank page.

Floating before him, a universe unwritten.

"Write the ending," the voice of the judge commanded.

His hand trembled.

What should the ending be?

Should the story end with victory? With loss? With meaning?

He looked at her.

"I don't want to be the only author," he said suddenly.

She blinked.

"I want to co-write the ending. With the other reader."

For a moment, silence.

Then the stage dissolved.

Back in the real world, the Scenario ended.

Kim Dokja woke on the ground of a half-destroyed subway tunnel. The system buzzed in his ears.

[Main Scenario #4 Complete]

[Shared Authorship Acknowledged: Dual Protagonists Registered]

[The Cosmic Audition Continues…]

He sat up, wincing. Across from him, she stood, dusting herself off.

They locked eyes.

Neither had won.

And yet, both had survived.

The story was still being written—but now, it had two pens.

End of Chapter 9