Lexicon. The city was not built from cement, bricks, or the hard labor of manual workers. It was constructed from rows of adjectives, meticulously arranged by an invisible hand.
Silas Vane woke up exactly as the clock in the central tower chimed seven times. However, the sound of the chime did not ring like metal being struck. If you listened very closely, it sounded more like a tongue pronouncing the word "Gong" repeatedly in a low register. Silas opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the ivory-white ceiling of his bedroom. There, hovering in a faint, italicized typography, was a text: [A ceiling representing tranquility for the newly awakened soul].
Silas sighed. He had been accustomed to these "Captions" since he was born into this world—or rather, since he "appeared" in this world ten years ago with no memory of Earth. To him, the floating text labels above every object were a law of nature, as certain as gravity.
He rose from the bed, above which was written: [A plush bed promising uninterrupted dreams]. However, Silas knew that was a lie. His dreams were always interrupted. Lately, he often dreamed of the sound of machine keys slamming against paper with the force of a thousand tons.
Silas walked toward the window and drew the curtains. Below, the cobalt cobblestone streets of Lexicon were coming to life. People dressed in Victorian style passed by with exceedingly polite gestures. Above each person's head hovered a description that defined who they were today. There was an old woman labeled [A kind grandmother carrying secret pie recipes], and a young man labeled [An ambitious artist seeking inspiration among the city dust].
As a Senior Verifier at the Ministry of Prose, Silas's job was to ensure that physical reality did not deviate from those descriptions. If the text said the artist was seeking inspiration, Silas had to ensure the young man didn't simply fall asleep on a park bench. If there was a deviation, the world would experience dissonance—a condition where colors would bleed and the shapes of objects would turn into coarse, pixelated blocks.
Silas picked up his Silver Stylus, a tool resembling an expensive fountain pen but equipped with a laser tip that could "edit" small fragments of reality. He threw on his black coat and headed out.
The streets of Lexicon always smelled like a combination of fresh coffee, old paper, and newly fallen rain. The scent was very specific because that was exactly what was written on the notice board at the district gate: [A district that always celebrates the morning with the aroma of comfort].
Silas walked with a steady pace. He stopped in front of a flickering streetlamp. Above the lamp was written: [A gas lamp glowing with a steady golden light]. Because the lamp flickered, it meant there was a narrative error. Silas pointed his Stylus at the lamp. With a single twisting motion, he "tightened" the reality of the lamp until its glow became steady and golden once more.
"Good work, Mr. Vane," a man greeted.
It was Arthur Gable, the baker. Arthur stood in front of his yeast-scented shop. Above Arthur's head hovered the text: [A cheerful merchant with flour-dusted dreams].
"Thank you, Arthur. How is the baking this morning? Does it match the adjectives?" Silas asked with a thin smile.
Arthur laughed—a laugh that sounded remarkably... programmed. "Of course! [Bread with a crust that is crispy on the outside but soft as a cloud on the inside]. That's what's written on the menu, and that's what comes out of the oven. You know yourself, Silas, in Lexicon, if we don't match our descriptions, we are nobody."
Silas nodded, but in his heart, he felt a strange emptiness. He took a piece of bread. As he bit into it, it was indeed crispy and soft. Yet, something was missing. It tasted too perfect. There was no accidental "burnt" flavor, no slightly crooked shape. Everything seemed validated by a cold algorithm of beauty.
"Arthur," Silas whispered suddenly. "Have you ever felt like... not being cheerful? Have you ever wanted the label above your head to change to [A man who is deeply sad] ?"
Arthur froze. His smile did not vanish, but his eyes flickered. For a moment, the label above Arthur's head blinked. The text [Cheerful merchant] disappeared briefly, replaced by a row of red binary code, before returning to normal.
"That's a dangerous thought, Silas," Arthur replied in a voice that was no longer cheerful. His voice was flat. "We don't write this story. We only act it out. Don't try to change the genre."
Silas continued his journey toward the Ministry office, but his mind was troubled by Arthur's reaction. He decided to take a shortcut through a narrow, seldom-used alleyway known as The Margin. Here, the descriptions were minimal. The walls were merely labeled [Damp stone walls].
In the middle of the alley, Silas stopped.
He saw something he had never seen in ten years of living in Lexicon. In the corner of the alley, beside a stack of wooden crates, there was a puddle of liquid. However, there was no label above it. No floating words to explain whether it was rainwater or oil.
Silas approached with a gripping curiosity. He knelt and observed the liquid. It wasn't clear; it was pitch black, darker than a starless night. The liquid seemed to move, as if it had a life of its own.
He dared to touch it with the tip of his index finger.
The liquid was cold—so cold it felt like it was burning. And stranger still, it didn't feel like water. Its texture was thick, sticky, and it left a stain that was incredibly difficult to clean. Silas sniffed his finger.
That smell. It wasn't coffee or old paper. It was a sharp, chemical odor. The smell of Ink.
Instantly, reality around Silas pulsed. The stone wall beside him suddenly lost its texture and turned into a plain white surface without a single grain. The label [Damp stone walls] fell from the air and hit the ground with a metallic clank, as if those words possessed physical weight.
Then, the sound emerged.
CLACK.
The sound came from the sky. It was so loud it made Silas's eardrums throb.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The sound was the noise of a typewriter. Each thumping sound was followed by a violent vibration that shook the surrounding buildings. Silas looked up toward the turquoise sky that was supposed to symbolize "infinite hope."
There, behind a layer of clouds that looked like cotton, he saw something impossible. A giant cylindrical shadow moved down from the sky, slamming into the earth in the distance with the speed of light, before being pulled back up. It was a Typewriter Key.
This world was being typed. Every step Silas took, every breath he drew, was the result of the pressure of a giant finger in another dimension.
Silas ran home, gasping for breath. He had to confirm one thing. He had to see Clara, his wife.
He slammed the door of his house. Clara was standing in the living room, her back to Silas. She was holding a vase of flowers. Above her head, the text hovered beautifully: [A faithful wife with boundless affection].
"Clara!" Silas screamed. "Clara, look at me!"
Clara turned with a very graceful motion. "Silas, darling, you're home early. I was just about to prepare [An afternoon tea that soothes the heart]."
Silas gripped Clara's shoulders. "Clara, listen to me. I saw ink. I saw the sky tremble. This world is fake, Clara! We are just characters in a narrative!"
Clara stared at Silas. Her smile remained the same. The description above her head remained the same.
"What are you talking about, Silas? This world is Lexicon. We are happy here because it is our destiny."
"It's not destiny! It's a plot!" Silas screamed, tears beginning to flow down his cheeks. However, as he wiped his tears, he realized something horrifying. His tears were not clear. In the palm of his hand, there was a thick black stain.
He was crying ink.
"Silas," Clara said in a voice that suddenly changed. Her voice was no longer graceful. It sounded like the whisper of thousands of people speaking at once. "You weren't supposed to touch the puddle in the alley. You've messed up the continuity."
Silas stepped back, terrified. "What... what do you mean?"
"The Author doesn't like characters who realize they are ink," Clara said.
Suddenly, the label above Clara's head began to change very rapidly. The text [A faithful wife] was erased, and new letters appeared, as if someone was erasing and retyping in a great hurry.
The new label read: [A narrative device to calm the protagonist who is beginning to break].
"You aren't Clara," Silas whispered with a trembling voice. "You're just a plot device."
Clara smiled, but her smile now appeared sinister because the corners of her mouth were pulled too wide, beyond the limits of normal human anatomy. "We are all plot devices, Silas. And you... you are the main character who is beginning to fail the reader's expectations."
Suddenly, the sky outside the window cracked. It didn't crack like an earthquake; it ripped like paper being pulled by force. A blinding white light entered through the tear, erasing the beautiful colors of Lexicon.
Silas looked out and realized that behind the blue sky, there was no outer space. There was only a giant, messy workspace. He saw a coffee mug the size of a mountain, and a human hand of extraordinary size hovering above their "world."
The human finger descended from the sky, moving toward the district where Arthur the baker lived.
ZAP!
In an instant, Arthur's entire bakery and Arthur himself vanished. They didn't explode; they didn't burn. They were simply erased. The place where the bakery once stood was now just an empty white box with a small text in the center: [This section has been deleted to pace the story].
Silas fell to the floor of his house, which was losing its wood texture and turning into coarse paper fibers.
"Who is doing this?" Silas roared toward the ripped sky. "Who are you?!"
A voice boomed from above—not a human voice, but a thought that planted itself directly in Silas's brain.
"I am the reason you breathe. I am the reason you love the woman you now see as a pile of letters. I am the Author, and you... you are merely an idea that is becoming too difficult to control."
Silas grabbed his Silver Stylus. He didn't know if this tool could hurt a God, but he had no other choice. He pointed the Stylus not at Clara, but at the text label above his own head.
Above Silas's head was written: [A protagonist confusedly searching for a way home].
Silas began pressing the buttons on his Stylus wildly. He tried to erase the word "Confusedly." He tried to replace it with the word "Rebelling."
"If I am your idea," Silas screamed while fighting the gravitational pressure trying to make him kneel, "then I am the idea that will destroy your manuscript!"
Suddenly, the world went completely dark. The sound of the typewriter stopped.
Silas stood in absolute darkness. No house, no Clara, no Lexicon. There was only Silas and a white cursor blinking in front of him.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
A text appeared in the darkness, right before Silas's eyes:
[CHAPTER 1: COMPLETE. PROCEED TO CHAPTER 2?]
Silas realized he couldn't die as long as this story continued. But he also realized something more horrifying. He could feel that "gaze" again. The gaze from behind the screen.
He realized the Author wasn't his only enemy. There was someone else. The person holding control over this "page." The person reading this sentence right now.
Silas stepped forward, his hand touching the boundary of the darkness that felt like a cold glass surface—the screen of your device.
"I know you're there," Silas whispered. "Don't you dare turn this page."
In that darkness, the black ink stain from Silas's hand began to cling to the inside of your screen, forming a message written in a language only you and he knew:
"You think this is just a story? Wait until I find a way out of these margins."