Only a few days ago, you were curled up with The Big Book of Stories, flipping through its strange tales without a care.
Now you're here—inside one of them…
And the absurdity hits you so hard it almost knocks the fear out of you about this whole situation. Two anthropomorphic wolves preparing a cauldron for who-knows-what, with you and the other side character named Therley tied up like props in some twisted ritual, as if held as hostages in this freaky hideout of theirs.
This can't be real.
And yet the cold stone beneath you, the smell of burning herbs, the bubbling hiss of the concoction—they all insist otherwise.
But something shifts.
A bright flash cuts through your mind, sharp and sudden. Sound fades. The room blurs.
Your thoughts drift into a dreamlike haze, as if you're floating just above your own body.
You lift your hands.
Wait, your hands…?!
They're free!
You stare at them, startled—and then at yourself, still tied to the chair.
Your real body sits limp and unaware, while you hover beside it like a ghost. You reach out, cautiously tapping your own shoulder, and your fingers pass straight through.
A chill ripples through you. You're not bound by the ropes anymore. You're not bound by the room. You're not even bound by your body.
Time slows to a syrupy crawl.
Bradley's movements lag. Trida's fur sways in delayed motion. The bubbling cauldron rises and falls in sluggish waves. Gravity feels optional. The story feels thin, like paper stretched too far.
The story of this place no longer held you down.
"What… is this?" you whisper, though no sound leaves your ghostly form.
The answer sparks in your mind like a struck match.
"Oh!" The realization bursts out of you. "This really is a story!"
And you…
You're an unwritten character.
The world around you hangs frozen, waiting…
For the first time since you arrived, the power isn't in Bradley's claws.
It's in your hands.
And the story is yours to bend.