The old man stepped forward, and the puppets edged closer to Aryan with their sharp tools. Aryan's back was pressed against the wall. His hand trembled inside his pocket, but he did not lose his nerve.
He whipped the lighter out of his pocket and flicked it on.
Click!
A small blue and yellow flame began to dance in the darkness.
Aryan held the lighter close to a nearby table laden with open bottles of turpentine oil and thinner. Sawdust was strewn across the floor. One spark, and this whole underworld would turn into a heap of ash.
"Back off!" Aryan screamed. There was a tremor in his voice, but his resolve was steel. "Take one more step, and I will burn this place to the ground! All your toys, your entire world... it will all end!"
The old man froze in his tracks.
For the first time, fear was visible in his eyes. He yelled, "No! Don't be mad! You don't know what you're doing. These aren't just pieces of wood... there are souls trapped inside them! If they burn, they will be lost forever!"
"I don't care!" Aryan inched the lighter closer to the bottle of oil. "Call off your puppets. Now!"
The old man waved his hand frantically. Clack-clack-clack... the puppets halted and slowly retreated into the shadows.
The old man pleaded, "Alright... alright. We'll let you go. Just put out the fire. This 'art' is centuries old, do not destroy it."
Aryan breathed a sigh of relief, but never took his eyes off the old man. He began to back away slowly toward where he had spotted an iron staircase leading up—perhaps the way out.
But just then, the 'puppet of Aryan' lying on the table—which had not yet been given life—suddenly snapped its head around.
Its eyeless sockets stared straight at Aryan.
And the puppet's jaw dropped open. It wasn't the old man's voice that came out, but Aryan's own:
"You can't burn this, Aryan... because if this burns, you burn too."
Aryan was stunned. "What kind of nonsense is this?"
Just then, the old man laughed menacingly. "What did you think? That you came here by chance? Your 'book,' your 'story'... we wrote it all. Aryan, you are no writer. You are the story, one that we will finish today."
Aryan's hand trembled. The lighter was on the verge of slipping from his fingers. Was he telling the truth? Was Aryan's very existence tied to this place?