The school bell rang, sharp and final, like the closing gavel on a court case where Charcoal "Char" Greene was always the accused.

He slumped out of the classroom, dragging his backpack behind him like it held the weight of his failures—because, well, it did. His latest math test, a battlefield of red ink and crossed-out attempts, was crumpled in his grip. He could already hear the usual post-exam chatter buzzing through the hallway:

"That was so easy.""Ugh, I should've gotten at least a 95!""Wait, we had a test today?"

And then there was Finn.

"Boom! Another A-plus for me," Finn said, grinning as he waved his paper in front of Char's face. "I mean, I could've gotten full marks, but, y'know, gotta keep things interesting."

Char rolled his eyes, not bothering to look at the grade Finn was so proud of. "Congrats. You wanna frame it or something?"

"Nah, I was thinking of signing it and auctioning it off. Limited edition."

Char snorted, shaking his head as he turned toward the nearest bin. Without ceremony, he dropped his own test inside. It landed with a soft plop atop someone else's abandoned worksheet—misery had company.

"You're just gonna throw it away?" Finn asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Would you hang up a murder scene in your bedroom?" Char shot back.

Finn chuckled. "Fair point. But dude, you seriously bombed it that bad?"

Char shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Same as always."

And it was. Bad grades weren't a surprise anymore; they were routine. Like a plot twist you saw coming from five chapters away. The teachers used to encourage him, but even they had stopped trying. Char had heard it all before: "You're smart, you just don't apply yourself!" or "If you spent half as much time on school as you do on those stories of yours..."

Like that was ever going to happen.

"You should at least read the feedback," Finn said. "Maybe you just made a couple of dumb mistakes."

Char let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Just a couple."

Finn nudged him. "Speaking of dumb mistakes, started any new stories lately?"

Char groaned. "Don't remind me. I had a great idea last night, but halfway through writing it, I realized it sucked. Again."

"Man, you do this every time," Finn said. "Just stick with one for once."

"Can't help it," Char muttered. "They always feel wrong. Like... I get this perfect vision in my head, but when I put it on paper, it's just—" He gestured vaguely. "Garbage."

"Harsh critic, aren't you?"

"I'd rather be my own critic than let some internet rando tear me apart."

Finn slung an arm over Char's shoulder. "One day, man, you're gonna finish a story. And when you do, it's gonna be epic."

Char sighed. "Yeah, sure. One day."

The walk to Char's house was a silent one, save for the occasional snort of laughter from Finn as he recounted some of his class's ridiculous antics. Char, however, trudged ahead, lost in his thoughts. The weight of the test he'd just thrown away still clung to him like a shadow, but now, it was joined by the growing pressure of Finn's challenge.

"C'mon, man," Finn said, nudging him again, "You can't avoid it forever. I'm gonna see that new masterpiece of yours, whether you like it or not."

Char shot him a look, but there was no malice in it. "I'm not exactly proud of it," he muttered, his hands still buried deep in his pockets.

Finn's eyes gleamed with mischief. "If it's anything like your last one, I'm in for a wild ride."

Char scowled. The last one had been a disaster. He'd been so sure it would work—the plot was fresh, the characters strong—but as he got deeper into it, it unraveled. It always unraveled.

*

By the time they reached Char's house, the energy had shifted. Finn was practically bouncing on his toes with anticipation, while Char felt a pit form in his stomach. This wasn't just showing a friend a draft; this was revealing a part of himself he couldn't quite fix. His writing, for better or worse, was the one thing he hadn't figured out how to let go of.

Char's house was quiet when they walked in, the sort of quiet that made Char's skin crawl. It was the kind of silence that sat heavy in the air, as if everything was waiting for something. His parents were both in the kitchen, his dad hunched over a newspaper, his mom going through the mail.

"Hey, kid," his dad said without looking up, "How'd the test go?"

Char grimaced. "Great."

"You sure?" his dad asked, now glancing up, his eyebrows raised. "You don't usually sound so... enthusiastic."

"Yeah, well, some things never change," Char muttered, heading straight for the stairs.

Finn, on the other hand, greeted Char's parents with a cheery, "Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Greene! How's it going?"

"Don't encourage him," Char shot back under his breath, though he appreciated Finn's ability to charm his parents. He could never quite manage it.

Char's mom looked up from the mail, fixing her gaze on him with that familiar, tired look. "Char... you're not gonna sulk all day, are you?"

"I'm not sulking," Char replied, but he could hear the bite in his own voice.

His mom's gaze softened slightly, but it still held that quiet concern. "You've been pulling away from everything lately. I don't want you to shut down, Char. Whatever's going on, we're here."

Char clenched his jaw, unsure of what to say. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," his mom replied, a touch too gently, before adding, "Just... don't close yourself off, okay? We're here."

Char nodded, though he wasn't sure it helped. He gave her a quick, "Yeah, whatever," before turning back to Finn, who was already halfway up the stairs.

"Come on," Finn called out, "I'm dying to see this thing you've been hiding."

Char didn't answer right away, letting the weight of his mother's words linger in the back of his mind. He had no idea how to explain it. How to explain that his stories were more than just bad ideas—they were pieces of him, fragments of himself he couldn't get right, no matter how hard he tried.

He led Finn into his room, the one place that didn't feel like it was constantly filled with expectations. The walls were littered with unfinished drafts, scribbled notes, and half-empty coffee cups. The desk, barely visible under all the chaos, had the newest version of his novel sitting on it—a full, bound manuscript.

Finn immediately dropped onto the bed, clearly unimpressed by the mess. "Is this what the famous Char Greene writing process looks like?"

Char ignored him, walking to the desk and picking up the manuscript with a sigh. "This is the one," he said, sitting down in front of his computer. "But don't expect it to be perfect. You know how it goes."

Finn leaned forward. "Yeah, yeah. I know you. But, hey, maybe this one's the one, right?"

Char couldn't bring himself to answer. Instead, he opened the file and handed the printed manuscript to Finn. "You asked for it. But don't blame me if you fall asleep halfway through."

Finn waved the comment away as he started flipping through the pages. Char sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, watching as Finn's eyes scanned the first few paragraphs.

Finn stopped on a page, his expression unreadable. "Okay, hold on," he said, sitting up straighter. "This part right here? This is—this is good. Like, really good."

Char's heart raced. "Really? You're not just saying that?"

"I'm not saying it to make you feel better, idiot. There's actually something here. But..." Finn's face twisted as he scanned the next page. "Some of this is... weird. Like, I don't know if the whole 'alternate reality' thing is really landing. It's kind of all over the place."

Char sighed and rubbed his face. "I knew it. It feels wrong, doesn't it? I just... can't make it work."

"Yeah," Finn said slowly, glancing at Char, "but you're getting closer. I can see it. The rest is just... details."

Char looked at him, disbelief in his eyes. "Details? Are you serious?"

Finn tossed the manuscript aside and leaned back on the bed. "Yeah, you're missing a couple pieces, but the heart of it's there. You've got the bones. You just gotta flesh it out."

Char wasn't convinced. "Flesh it out? You mean, 'fix it until it stops sucking'?"

"Basically," Finn said with a grin. "But trust me, man. You're getting there. Keep at it."

Char snorted, finally allowing himself to laugh. "Alright, maybe I'll stick with it a little longer. But no promises."

*

Finn left as the evening wore on, his words still buzzing in Char's head like the aftertaste of something too sweet. He said Char would finish it. Maybe, just maybe, there was something worth saving in the mess of words he'd poured onto that page. Char didn't know if he believed it, but as he sat alone in his room, the quiet pressure of it all weighed heavily on him. The pressure to finish, to make it right, to stop letting it spiral out of control.

Char pulled the chair closer to his desk, cracked open a can of soda, and began to write.

His fingers hovered over the keys, but the words didn't come easily, not like they used to. The screen stared back at him, blank and silent. He started with a sentence, deleted it. Started again. Deleted again. He groaned under his breath. This was the problem with writing: you could never get the right words when you needed them the most.

A few hours passed. Char's eyes burned with tiredness, but still, he wrote. It wasn't much, just snippets—lines that didn't make sense, ideas that led nowhere. But there was something about getting lost in it, about escaping into a world where he had control, even if it was only over words. The exhaustion crept up on him slowly, but before he knew it, his head was resting on the edge of his desk, his laptop screen glowing faintly in the darkness.

The room was still.

At least, it should have been.

A sudden, sharp sound split the silence—a soft, almost imperceptible hum, like a low-frequency vibration from deep within the walls. Char didn't hear it at first, his mind too heavy with sleep. But then, there it was again—a sharp, crackling pulse of sound, followed by a faint thrum in the air.

His eyes snapped open. The hum seemed to vibrate in his very bones, and he sat up, pushing his messy hair out of his face, heart racing.

Something felt wrong.

The laptop was still open. The page where he'd left off was still there. But as he blinked at the screen, he noticed something strange. The cursor had moved. The words had changed.

A new line had appeared.

"A mysterious light explodes, and from within it, Charcoal Greene enters."

Char's breath caught in his throat, the words feeling like a physical blow. His fingers moved against his will, almost as if the words weren't his own. His hand hovered, frozen over the keyboard, but it wasn't enough. Before he could stop himself, his fingers typed out the next line:

"Char was thrown into the light, his body pulled from the real world into a realm unlike anything he had ever seen."

The words weren't just words anymore. They felt real. Felt alive. His heart pounded in his chest as his fingers, beyond his control, continued to type, filling the page with details too vivid, too real for comfort. The strange hum grew louder, and as if the words were a summons, the room around him began to warp and twist.

The air grew thick. Char could see his own reflection in the screen, but something was wrong with it. It wasn't him, not entirely. There was a flicker, a shadow moving behind his own face. The familiar walls of his room, the cluttered desk, the posters on the walls—they all began to distort. The light from his laptop flared brightly, almost blinding him. He reached out, his fingers trembling, trying to stop the words, trying to close the lid.

But it was too late.

The light around him expanded, an explosion of brilliant white that engulfed him completely. The room was gone. The air he breathed was gone. Everything around him was swallowed by the light, and before he could even scream, Char was somewhere else.

The world around him was unrecognizable. He stumbled forward, his hands outstretched, trying to make sense of the shifting landscape. He was standing in what appeared to be some kind of vast, glowing city—metal spires stretched high into the sky, pulsing with an eerie light. There were no streets, no familiar landmarks. The ground beneath his feet wasn't solid. It was like standing on liquid glass, rippling with every step he took.

His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to get his bearings, but everything felt wrong. He knew this place. He recognized it. It was a place from one of his stories. The setting he'd written about countless times, the city he had created in his mind, but it had never been real. Not until now.

And there, standing in the middle of it all, was a figure. A tall silhouette, bathed in the same strange light, watching him.

Char's pulse quickened. The figure stepped forward, its features still shadowed by the glow, and as it approached, Char felt a strange sense of recognition. His breath hitched in his throat as the figure drew closer.

It was him. Charcoal Greene—the character he'd created. The one who had always been trapped in the pages of his notebooks, now standing before him, looking... real.

"Welcome," the figure said, its voice low, almost metallic. "You've arrived just as you were meant to."

Char stumbled back, shaking his head in disbelief. "No... this isn't possible. You're—"

"I am you," Charcoal Greene replied, taking a step forward. "And you... you are me."

Char shook his head violently, trying to push the panic from his chest. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

But as Char stood there, his mind reeling, the world around him seemed to close in. He could feel it—the weight of the story pressing against him, pulling him deeper into it. The words he had written were no longer just ink on paper; they were reality, and he was trapped inside them.

With a sudden, horrifying clarity, Char realized what had happened. He had written himself into the very world he had created. And now, there was no way out.