Unfinished

A World Turned Upside Down

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just stare.

Five people. Five impossibly real, living, breathing people. In my apartment. In my world.

And I know them. Every single one.

The knight. The detective. The scientist. The rogue machine. The fallen angel.

I don’t know how long I sit there, frozen, my brain trying to process the absolute impossibility of this situation. It must be a dream. A really vivid dream. Or maybe I’ve finally snapped under the weight of all my unfinished stories, and this is some elaborate hallucination my mind has conjured up as punishment.

But then Jack lets out an exaggerated sigh and mutters, “Well, this is awkward,” and I realize that hallucinations probably don’t talk back.

That’s when my body finally catches up with my brain.

I scramble off my bed so fast that I trip over my own blankets and nearly face-plant onto the floor. My legs tangle in the sheets, and I stagger, grabbing the edge of my desk for support. Papers and notebooks go flying, but I barely notice because they are still here.

“What the hell?” My voice comes out higher than usual, slightly breathless. “Who—how—what—?”

I can’t even form a coherent sentence. My heart is racing, my hands shaking as I point at them like that will somehow make them disappear. They don’t. They just keep staring at me, five distinct expressions ranging from confusion to mild amusement.

“Uh, so…” I swallow hard. “One of you want to explain what the hell is going on?”

“Funny,” Jack drawls, pushing off the edge of my desk and stretching like he’s just woken up from a long nap. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He’s exactly how I imagined him—tall and lean, dark messy hair falling over sharp eyes that seem to pick apart everything at once. He’s got the same perpetual five o’clock shadow, the same worn-out trench coat, the same cocky smirk that makes me want to punch him and laugh at the same time.

“I don’t—” I shake my head. “This isn’t—You’re not real.”

Jack snorts. “Tell that to my headache.” He rubs the back of his neck and glances around my apartment like it’s the most pathetic excuse for a crime scene he’s ever seen. He’s probably judging my mess. Fantastic.

“I’d like an explanation as well,” Darius speaks up, his voice deep and steady. Unlike Jack, he looks completely composed, standing tall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on me like he’s assessing whether I’m a threat. He’s clad in dark armor, polished but worn from battle, a crimson cape draped over one shoulder. His blond hair is tied back at the nape of his neck, and there’s a thin scar along his jawline—just like I wrote it.

Because I wrote him.

“I—” My voice cracks. “I made you.”

Darius frowns. “Made?”

“This is impossible,” I whisper, dragging a hand through my hair. My heart won’t stop hammering against my ribs. I turn to Lena, my brilliant scientist, my puzzle-solver. “You—you’re a scientist. You explain things. Explain this.”

Lena blinks at me, then at the others, then down at herself as if she just realized she exists. “Huh.”

I gape at her. “Huh? That’s all you’ve got?”

She grins suddenly, bright and mischievous, pushing up the oversized goggles perched on her forehead. She’s exactly as I wrote her—short, energetic, covered in smudges of grease and ink, her jumpsuit tied at the waist over a tank top. “Nope! But this is fascinating.” She’s already moving, reaching out toward my desk like she wants to take apart my laptop.

“Nope!” I lunge forward, snatching the device before she can get her hands on it.

She pouts. “Come on, I just want to see—”

“Nope! No touching my stuff!”

She huffs but backs off, which is more than I can say for Rex-9, who has been silently scanning my apartment like it’s some kind of hostile territory. He’s the tallest of the group, broad-shouldered, dressed in sleek black armor that hums with faint blue energy. His cybernetic eyes glow faintly, their mechanical irises adjusting as he turns to face me.

“You are the creator?” His voice is deep, but there’s something oddly mechanical about the way he speaks—precise, efficient, like every word is calculated before he says it.

I don’t know how to respond to that. “Uh… I guess?”

Rex-9 tilts his head, as if processing. “This information is… unexpected.”

Tell me about it.

Then, finally, there’s him.

Azrael hasn’t said a word yet. He’s standing near the window, arms folded, dark wings half-furled behind him. Unlike the others, he doesn’t look confused—just amused, like he’s already figured something out and is enjoying watching me struggle. His jet-black hair falls over piercing silver eyes, his sharp features almost too perfect to be real.

Which, of course, he shouldn’t be.

“So,” he finally says, his voice smooth, low, edged with something almost dangerous. “Did you summon us, little creator?”

I hate the way my stomach flips at that.

I scowl. “I didn’t summon anyone.”

Azrael’s smirk deepens. “Are you sure?”

“I wrote you.” I throw my hands in the air, frustration creeping in. “That’s it! That’s all I did! You’re not supposed to be here.”

He studies me for a long moment before shrugging. “And yet, here we are.”

I groan and collapse onto my desk chair, burying my face in my hands. This is not happening. This is some bizarre fever dream, or maybe I actually died in my sleep and this is my weird afterlife.

Because there is no logical explanation for why my unfinished characters—people who only existed in my head—are now standing in my living room, acting like they belong here.

I peek through my fingers. They haven’t disappeared.

Jack is inspecting my bookshelf. Lena is trying to disassemble my toaster. Darius looks like he’s debating whether or not I’m a threat. Rex-9 is still scanning things. And Azrael is watching me with the kind of smirk that makes me want to scream.

I am so, so screwed.