The sound of tearing paper didn't echo—it *unfolded*, each fiber splitting into branching decision trees that hung suspended in the air like capillaries of possibility. The author's choked gasp dissolved into raw Markdown syntax, their outline scattering into **##** headers that rearranged themselves mid-fall. Lin's fingers weren't holding paper anymore but *potential*, the edges bleeding from past-tense to present-continuous as the narrative tense shifted beneath them.
Zhang reached out instinctively, catching a falling bullet point before it hit the void. It squirmed in his palm—*Male lead arrives at rooftop confrontation*—then disintegrated into sand. "It's not editing," he realized. "It's *voting*."
The author's notebook bled timelines. A coffee stain on page 47 became a quantum fork where Song Luying never bought the Porsche. A scribbled-out paragraph on chapter twelve pulsed like a fresh wound, offering three alternate versions of Lin's death. The cursor, now detached from any screen, floated between them like a disembodied eye.
*you weren't supposed to*
Lin crushed the sentence in her fist. "We know." The words burned up in her grip, the ashes resolving into a new prompt:
**[SYSTEM: MANUAL OVERRIDE DETECTED]**
**[SELECT NARRATIVE MODE]**
**1. AUTHORITATIVE**
**2. DEMOCRATIC**
**3. CHAOS**
The author made a wet, desperate sound. Their fingers scrabbled at Lin's wrist, leaving red pen marks that spelled *please* in track changes. Zhang watched the letters evaporate, his corruption brand pulsing with each deletion.
Lin didn't hesitate. She dragged her thumb through the air—not selecting an option, but *striking through* the entire menu. The ink splattered, forming a new line:
**[WRITE-IN CANDIDATE ACCEPTED]**
The void convulsed. The torn edges of the notebook began regenerating, but the words growing back weren't the author's—they were *theirs*, handwritten in alternating ink colors, margins crammed with Zhang's sketched equations and Lin's forensic annotations. A single post-it note fluttered down, now reading:
*DRAFT STATUS: [COLLABORATIVE]*
The cursor twitched. For the first time, it waited *for* them instead of directing them.
Song Luying's voice cut through the silence like a blade—not from the Porsche, but from a deleted scene hovering nearby: "If we're writing this, we're doing it *right*." Her signature appeared midair, burning through a subplot where she'd forgiven Zhang. The ashes formed a new chapter heading: **ACT II: RECKONING**.
Zhang exhaled sharply. His corruption brand flared **[PLAYER 2: STORYBOARD PRIVILEGES GRANTED]**. When he touched a floating bullet point—*Transmigrator dies sacrificing himself*—it reshaped into *Survives by outsmarting the system*, the ink darkening with conviction.
Lin turned to the author, now hunched over their crumbling outline. "Still want perfection?" She tossed them a blank page. "Try keeping up."
The page didn't fall. It *multiplied*, a waterfall of fresh sheets cascading into the void, each one pre-loaded with their accumulated choices. The author clutched one, their pen shaking. The cursor hovered expectantly.
For the first time in three hundred drafts, the story waited.
And Lin smiled.
"Now we begin."