They didn't stop running until the stairs ended and the air turned cold enough to sting.
He pushed open a narrow door, and they spilled into a courtyard half-hidden by shadow. Stone benches. A dry fountain. Ivy crawling up the walls like it was trying to escape. She recognized it instantly.
Her stomach dropped.
"No," she whispered.
He glanced at her. "You know this place too?"
"This scene," she said, barely breathing now. "This is where—"
The pressure hit again.
Hard.
She doubled over, hands on her knees, gasping as something sharp twisted in her chest. Not pain exactly—more like resistance. Like the world was pushing against her from the inside.
"What's happening to you?" he asked, gripping her shoulder.
"I'm not supposed to be here," she said. "Not now."
"What happens here?" His voice was low, urgent.
She shook her head. "I don't know everything. I didn't finish the book."
That was the worst part.
A door creaked open across the courtyard.
Footsteps.
Someone else was entering the scene.
Her heart started racing for a different reason now. She remembered this moment—not clearly, but enough to know it mattered. A confrontation. A choice. One that set everything else in motion.
"There's a fight here," she said quickly. "Someone gets hurt."
"Who?"
She looked at him.
His expression changed.
"Me," he said quietly.
The footsteps grew louder.
She grabbed his arm. "You can avoid it. If you don't go to the fountain, if you don't say what you're supposed to say—"
"That's not how this works," he cut in. "If this scene exists, it happens."
"But I'm already here," she said. "Things are already wrong."
As if in response, the lamps around the courtyard flared—too bright, too sudden. The air vibrated, tense and expectant.
The world was waiting.
Someone stepped into the light. A tall figure, face tight with anger she recognized instantly from the page.
"This is it," she whispered. "This is where everything breaks."
He stared at the newcomer, jaw clenched. Then he looked back at her.
"You shouldn't have told me," he said.
"I'm trying to help."
"No," he replied. "You're trying to rewrite something you don't understand."
The figure across the courtyard spoke his name.
The exact way it had been written.
Her chest tightened painfully.
"Go," he told her. "Hide. Don't interfere."
"I can't," she said.
The pressure surged again, stronger now, like the world was losing patience. The fountain cracked down the middle. Stone splintered. The story was destabilizing.
"If I let this happen," she said, voice shaking, "you get hurt. Badly."
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
That was all the story needed.
The figure lunged.
She moved without thinking.
She stepped between them.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs as she hit the ground hard, pain flashing up her side. A sharp cry echoed—hers.
The world snapped.
Everything froze.
The lamps flickered violently. The air screamed—actually screamed—like tearing paper.
"No," he breathed.
Time lurched forward again all at once.
The figure was gone. The courtyard silent except for her ragged breathing.
She curled in on herself, pain blooming across her ribs.
He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering, unsure where to touch.
"You weren't supposed to do that," he said. His voice wasn't angry.
It was afraid.
"I know," she whispered. "But I couldn't let it happen."
The pressure receded—just a little.
Not because the world approved.
But because it was recalculating.
He looked at her now like she wasn't just an intruder.
She was a variable.
"You changed it," he said.
Her vision blurred. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he replied slowly, "the story can no longer pretend you don't exist."
She closed her eyes as exhaustion dragged her under, one terrifying thought echoing louder than the pain.
If the story could be changed once…
It could punish her for it next time.