The air in the lobby tasted like ozone—the smell of a thunderstorm trapped inside a bottle.
Ehaan stood by the elevators, checking his watch. 8:47 AM. He was three minutes early, yet the atmosphere felt rushed, like a video played at 1.5x speed.
[System Alert: Plot Deviation. Recalculating probability matrix...]
The red text pulsed against the marble floor. Ehaan stepped over it. He didn't run; protagonists who ran blindly usually tripped over plot contrivances. Instead, he turned back to look at the security booth where Sharma had been standing just two minutes ago.
CRASH.
A heavy iron chandelier, the one that had hung in the lobby for twenty years, detached from the ceiling. It fell in a straight vertical line, smashing directly into the center of the security booth. Glass shattered. Metal groaned. Dust billowed out like a mushroom cloud.
The lobby erupted into screams. People scrambled back.
Ehaan didn't flinch. He calculated the trajectory. If Sharma had been at his post, checking IDs as per his "routine," he would be dead.
A new line of text appeared over the wreckage, flickering aggressively:
[Correction Failed. Target 'Sharma' absent. Scene continuity broken.]
Ehaan adjusted his glasses. It wasn't an accident, he realized. It was an edit. The narrative had decided Sharma was "expendable" to establish a dark tone for Act 2. By removing Sharma, Ehaan hadn't just saved a life; he had created a plot hole.
He walked toward the elevators while everyone else ran toward the exit.
"Sir! Sir, don't go up! It's not safe!" a receptionist yelled.
Ehaan ignored her. He knew exactly how safe he was. If he was the MainCharacter—and the persistent tracking of his movements suggested he was—the story couldn't kill him yet. He hadn't even reached the inciting incident. You don't kill Hamlet in Act 1, Scene 1. He had Plot Armor.
He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 12th floor.
As the doors closed, shutting out the chaos, the lights flickered. The elevator music—a terrible jazz rendition of a pop song—slowed down, distorting into a low drone.
The text appeared on the mirrored wall of the elevator, larger this time. Gold, not blue.
[Author Note: Why did you do that?]
Ehaan looked at his reflection. He looked tired, but sharp. "Because," he said to the empty car, "lazy writing offends me. Killing a nice old man just to show the stakes? Cliché."
The elevator shuddered. It stopped between the 8th and 9th floors.
[The Protagonist is not supposed to be self-aware. Resetting mental state in 3... 2...]
"If you reset me," Ehaan said quickly, his voice calm but authoritative, "you lose the unique hook of your story. A self-aware character is a feature, not a bug. Use it."
The countdown stopped at 1.
Ehaan waited. This was a negotiation. He was betting on the Author's ego. Every writer wants to believe they are writing something clever.
The text dissolved. A new message appeared, hesitant this time.
[...Proceed. But the Inciting Incident is mandatory. You cannot avoid the Call to Adventure.]
"We'll see," Ehaan muttered.
The elevator jolted upward and opened smoothly on the 12th floor. The office was buzzing. Phones were ringing, people were gossiping about the crash downstairs.
Ehaan walked to his cubicle. He needed to stabilize the narrative. If he acted too erratic, the Author might decide to scrap the whole draft and start over—which likely meant Ehaan getting hit by a bus. He needed to be boring. He needed to ground the plot in mundane details so the Author couldn't throw a dragon or a terrorist attack at him without it seeming ridiculous.
He sat down, turned on his computer, and opened an Excel spreadsheet.
[Objective: Work. Duration: Indefinite.]
He started typing. He worked with aggressive mediocrity. He answered emails. He filed reports. He drank lukewarm coffee. He refused to look at the window where a mysterious storm cloud was gathering against the clear blue sky.
I will bore this writer into submission, Ehaan thought.
But the Author was persistent.
At 10:30 AM, a woman walked into the office. She didn't belong here. She was wearing a trench coat that was too dramatic for a corporate Tuesday, and she had a scar running through her eyebrow. She looked like she had walked out of a noir spy novel.
Heads turned. She marched straight down the aisle, her eyes locking onto Ehaan.
Above her head, a tag flashed:
[Character: The Mysterious Courier. Inventory: The Device. Relationship: Love Interest/Partner.]
Ehaan sighed. Subtle.
She stopped at his desk, slamming a metallic briefcase down on his spreadsheets. "Ehaan Kapoor?" she breathed, her voice husky and urgent. "They found us. We have to go. Now."
It was the Call to Adventure. The classic hook. Come with me if you want to live.
The entire office went silent, watching them. The air shimmered with anticipation. The script demanded he stand up, ask "Who found us?", and run out the door with her.
Ehaan looked at the woman. Then he looked at the briefcase. Then he looked back at his monitor.
"I'm in the middle of a pivot table," Ehaan said without blinking. "Please make an appointment with reception."
The woman blinked, her dramatic expression faltering. "What? Did you hear me? The Agency is coming!"
"I don't know an Agency," Ehaan said, typing a formula. "And you are violating the office dress code. Trench coats are for outdoor use only."
[Narrative Stress Level: Critical. Protagonist Refusal of Call detected.]
The woman looked confused. She looked at the ceiling, as if waiting for a line prompt. "But... you're the Chosen One. You have the code!"
"I have the code for the printer," Ehaan corrected. "It's 1-2-3-4. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a deadline."
He was pushing it. He knew he was pushing it. But he had to know who was in charge: the script, or the actor.
The woman grabbed his arm. Her grip was like steel. "Stop acting stupid. Look at the margin!"
Ehaan froze.
She wasn't looking at him. She was looking above him.
"You see them too, don't you?" she whispered, her voice losing the dramatic act, sounding suddenly very real and very scared. "The blue words. You see them."
Ehaan stopped typing. He looked up at her tag.
[Character: The Mysterious Courier.]
The tag flickered. A glitch. Underneath the label, for just a split second, he saw real text:
[Name: Riya. Status: Aware. Desperation: 100%.]
She wasn't a plot device. She was like him.
"Meet me on the roof in five minutes," she hissed, letting go of his arm. "Before He decides to drop a plane on the building to make you move."
She turned and stormed out.
Ehaan sat alone in the silence of the office. The text above his own head, which he couldn't see but knew was there, pulsed.
[Plot Path Updated. Route: The Roof.]
Ehaan saved his spreadsheet. He realized he couldn't just bore the narrative away. He had an ally. Or a trap.
"Fine," Ehaan whispered. "Let's see the next page."