Chapter 15

This Book May Kill You

We didn’t land.

The corridor formed around us.

One moment we were falling through the shattered Editing Layer, red lines dissolving into pixels. The next, the floor wasn’t floor anymore.

It was soft. Uncommitted. My foot sank an inch. Then didn’t. Then dissolved completely.

We weren’t falling. We weren’t standing. We simply existed. Mid-transition. The world stuttered. For a heartbeat everything was placeholder. Approximation.

Then it stabilized.

The corridor stretched ahead of us. No texture. Just the idea of walls. Doors lined both sides. Evenly spaced. Perfectly identical. No knobs. No hinges. Rectangular expectations.

A place between places.

Evan released my arm. “This is where they keep the failures.”

“We’re in the recycling bin,” I said slowly.

A door hissed on our left. Its outline trembled. The door peeled open.

Inside. A classroom. High school. Chalkboard. Desks. Inspirational posters.

In the nearest desk sat a man. He looked like me. Almost. His face was smooth where detail should be. His eyes open. Empty.

“Daniel,” I whispered.

His head turned. Rotated by a dragged slider. His mouth opened. No sound. Just a wide, impossible stretch.

We stepped back. Another door opened.

The corridor showed us. Dim bar lighting. Incomplete stools. A bartender polishing a glass. Derek.

Behind the next door. A cubicle room. Muted screens. An accountant staring without blinking. David.

Evan’s breath caught. “These are all.”

“Versions of me.”

“All the ones that didn’t work.”

Half-formed. Abandoned mid-render. But breathing.

Another door opened, revealing a messy bedroom with a cheap desk and a glowing monitor. Evan’s room.

Another door opened. A messy bedroom. Cheap desk. Glowing monitor.

“That’s my apartment,” Evan said. He moved toward it.

Inside, sitting at the desk, was Evan. A different Evan. Younger. Thinner. Hunched over the keyboard with dead eyes.

Evan’s face went white. “No. That’s not. I’m not.”

The corridor convulsed around us. The door slammed shut.

The drafts. Daniel. David. Derek. The unnamed versions beyond. They turned. Small, jerking motions. Their eyes followed us. Their mouths opened in perfect sync.

Run.

The corridor convulsed. The drafts smeared. Wet ink. Limbs unspooled into scribbles. Punishment for speaking.

Something forced us forward.

It wasn’t the Author.

It wasn’t the Cat.

It was You.

We ran. Because the corridor wanted us to. We could feel the next chapter waiting.

And You were already turning toward it.

“There.” Evan pointed.

Ahead of us, where the grey walls vanished into fog, a familiar shape watched us approach.

The Cat.

The world tilted ninety degrees. We slid backward. Helpless against the momentum.

The Cat didn’t slide.

It crouched at the very edge of the scene. Clawing at the floor. Its eyes flicked upward. Toward You. Then back to us.

NOW. WHILE THEY’RE DISTRACTED.

The fabric of the corridor tore. A jagged white rip opened in the bottom of the world.

We dove through the tear the Cat had made.

Into the white.

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