By the next morning, the city felt different.
Not broken.
Not chaotic.
Divided.
Ayush noticed it first online. His phone buzzed endlessly with notifications—clips, screenshots, voice notes. People arguing in comment sections, strangers stitching together moments that didn't belong together.
A traffic signal glitch.
A school projector predicting speech.
A security camera showing a man entering a shop twice—without leaving in between.
Someone had given it a name.
The Pattern.
Ayush scrolled with a sinking feeling.
Some people laughed it off.
Some called it a system error.
Some claimed it was staged.
But a small, growing group said something else.
"It's a script."
"Reality is responding."
"There's a structure behind events."
Ayush locked his phone and stared at the wall.
"They're forming," he whispered.
At school, the tension was impossible to ignore. Teachers avoided questions. Students whispered instead of joked. Even the bell rang a second late—every time.
Neel slid into the seat beside Ayush. "They've started meeting," he said quietly.
Ayush stiffened. "Who?"
"The ones who believe," Neel replied. "They think the glitches are messages."
Ayush's chest tightened. "Messages from what?"
Neel hesitated. "From whoever's writing."
Ayush felt cold.
Before he could respond, Riya appeared beside their desk. She hadn't asked permission. She never did.
"They're calling themselves Readers," she said.
Ayush looked up sharply. "You knew?"
Riya nodded. "It always happens."
Neel blinked. "Always?"
Riya met Ayush's eyes. "In every unstable draft."
Ayush swallowed. "What do they want?"
Riya's answer was immediate. "Meaning."
The word hung heavy between them.
At lunch, Ayush followed Riya to the rooftop—a place students rarely used. The city stretched out below them, loud and unaware.
"They think reality is speaking to them," Ayush said. "That they're chosen."
Riya leaned against the railing. "People prefer purpose over randomness."
Ayush clenched his fists. "They're wrong."
Riya looked at him carefully. "Are they?"
Ayush turned. "This isn't divine. It's dangerous."
"Dangerous things attract belief faster," Riya replied. "Especially when they explain fear."
Ayush shook his head. "This will get out of control."
"It already has," Riya said. "Last time, the believers demanded proof."
Ayush froze. "Proof of what?"
"Of the writer," she said softly.
Ayush's phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He ignored it.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
Finally, he answered.
"Hello?"
A calm voice spoke on the other end. Older. Confident.
"We know you can hear the Pattern more clearly than others, Ayush."
Ayush's breath caught. "Who is this?"
"We are listeners," the voice replied. "And soon, interpreters."
Ayush's pulse raced. "You have the wrong person."
A brief pause.
"No," the voice said. "We followed the anomalies backward. The school. The journal-related timestamps. Your proximity is statistically impossible."
Ayush's knees felt weak.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"To understand the narrative," the voice said. "And to protect it."
Ayush laughed bitterly. "Protect it from what?"
"From collapse," the voice answered. "Or from you."
The call ended.
Ayush stared at the phone.
"They found me," he whispered.
Riya exhaled slowly. "Faster than expected."
Neel looked panicked. "Bhai, what do we do?"
Ayush didn't answer.
He went home early, heart racing, thoughts colliding. The moment he entered his room, he opened the laptop.
The document was already active.
"First contact achieved."
Ayush slammed the desk. "You let them find me."
The reply appeared instantly:
"Belief accelerates convergence."
Ayush's voice shook. "They threatened me."
"They challenged you."
"That's not the same thing!"
"To believers, it is."
Ayush leaned forward. "This isn't a game. These are real people."
The text appeared colder now:
"So are characters."
Ayush felt a flash of anger. "Don't dehumanize them."
The cursor paused.
Then:
"Then don't dehumanize yourself."
Ayush fell silent.
The laptop continued:
"Every narrative reaches this point.
The moment belief demands authorship."
Ayush whispered, "What happens if I refuse?"
The answer came slowly. He could almost feel its weight.
"Then they will write without you."
Ayush's heart pounded.
"You said not everyone can write."
"Everyone can attempt," the screen replied.
"Most fail."
Ayush's mind raced. "And those who don't?"
The final line appeared, stark and ominous:
"They replace the writer."
Ayush leaned back, breath shallow.
Outside, the city hummed—ignorant of the shift taking place beneath its routines.
Inside, Ayush understood something terrifying.
The story wasn't just being read anymore.
It was being claimed.