JASMINE
I was now sitting in the room, while Steohan told me he needed to take a call.
Just then a sharp ping sliced through my mind, clearer and more urgent than it had been in days.
(Host… why did you tell him the truth? That was dangerous. The interference is spiking. The writer might delete everything again if you keep pushing.)
My fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles white. "The writer?" I whispered aloud, voice cracking.
The system glitched, its voice fracturing like static.
(Yes. He despises deviation. You were never meant to break the script. This is your only window right now. Use it… before he seals it shut.)
The bedroom door creaked open. Stephan stepped inside, shoulders heavy with exhaustion, yet his eyes still carried that shock.
He closed the door with gentleness, as if afraid the world outside might hear us. When he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand found mine warm, solid, real. For a moment, that simple touch anchored me.
