I was just a side character, so why are you crying?

Chapter 9: The Editor's Pen

I slowly stood up, my legs trembling as I waded through the shallow, icy water toward the bars. The man in the shadows stepped into the dim light of the hallway. He looked young, perhaps in his late twenties, with hair the color of bone and eyes that were a flat, mechanical gray. He wore the high-collared robes of a Bishop, but he held himself with the clinical coldness of a surgeon.

“Mikaela,” he repeated, tilting his head. “A stressed-out office worker with a penchant for high-calorie snacks and a tragic heart condition. You were a very unremarkable person before you fell into my story.”

“Who are you?” I rasped, gripping the iron bars. My knuckles were white, and not just from the cold. “And what do you mean, ‘your’ story?”

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “In your world, I was the lead developer for the ‘Crown of Thorns’ immersive AI experience. Here? I am the High Priest’s advisor, the man they call the Prophet. But you can call me the Editor.”

He reached through the bars, not to touch me, but to tap the air in front of my face. A shimmering, translucent blue screen flickered into existence—a status window.

CHARACTER STATUS:

Genevieve Blackwood ROLE: Villainess / Scripted Sacrifice

DIVERGENCE: 42% (CRITICAL)

THREAT LEVEL: High

“You’re breaking the save file, Mikaela,” he whispered. “Genevieve is supposed to be hated. She is the catalyst that forces the Prince to marry the Saintess. By acting ‘soft,’ you’ve delayed the wedding, caused a premature frost, and now the Knight Commander is experiencing a ‘glitch’ in his loyalty.”

“I’m not a glitch,” I snapped, my Genevieve-instincts flaring up despite the fear. “I’m a human being who doesn't want to be executed for a crime I didn't commit!”

“Human?” The Editor laughed, a hollow, metallic sound. “You’re data. And data can be deleted. I let your brother frame you because the story needs you in this tower. It needs you to be the bitter, broken woman who finally snaps and tries to kill the Emperor.”

He leaned closer, his gray eyes narrowing. “If you don't follow the script, the world resets. And in a reset, your soul doesn't just go back to the hospital. It gets wiped. Erased. No afterlife. No hospital bed. Just... nothing.”

Before I could answer, the heavy doors at the end of the corridor groaned open. The Editor stepped back into the shadows instantly, his blue screen vanishing.

“Genevieve!”

A voice I knew all too well thundered through the stone hall. It wasn't the calm, calculated voice of the Knight. It was the frantic, jagged tone of a man losing his grip on reality.

Prince Julian.

He marched down the hallway, his golden cape dragging in the dirty water. He looked disheveled—his crown was missing, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a man who hadn't slept since the Cathedral.

He reached my cell and slammed his hands against the bars, his face inches from mine. “Tell me it was a lie,” he hissed, his breath smelling of wine and desperation. “Tell me your father forced you to confess. Tell me you didn't touch her!”

I looked past him into the shadows. The Editor was still there, watching me, his hand raised as if holding a pen, waiting for me to say the "wrong" thing so he could end me.

I looked back at Julian. He wasn't crying because he loved Liana. He was crying because his "perfect" childhood friend—the girl he kept around as his shadow—had finally stepped out of his control.

“Would you believe me if I did, Julian?” I asked, my voice calm and terrifyingly cold. “Or would you just find another cage to put me in?”

Julian’s grip on the bars tightened until the iron groaned. “I would have protected you! I could have convinced the Church to spare you! But now... the Saintess is scarred, and the people want your head.” He reached through the bars, his fingers digging into my shoulders. “I won't let them have you. Even if I have to burn this tower down with you inside it, you belong to the Crown. You belong to me.”

Behind him, I saw the Editor give a slow, satisfied nod. The "Obsession" beat was back on track.

But then, a third shadow appeared.

“The Prince should be careful with his threats,” Cassel Thorne said, stepping into the torchlight behind Julian. “The Tower of Sighs belongs to the Order, not the Crown. And the prisoner is currently under my protection for interrogation.”

The air in the hallway turned electric. Two male leads, one "Editor," and me—the girl who just wanted a buffet—stuck in the middle of a script that was bleeding.

I looked at Cassel, then at the obsessed Prince, and finally at the man in the shadows.

“Get out,” I said, my voice echoing with a power that wasn't Mikaela’s or Genevieve’s, but something entirely new. “All of you. I’m tired of being your plot point.”