Chapter 103 THE BOY IN THE CHAIR

Chapter 103 THE BOY IN THE CHAIR
The scissors snapped inches from the boy’s neck. I didn't think. I just moved. I tackled the author before he could finish his strike. We hit the floor, sliding across the room until we crashed into the closet door.

"Get out of here!" I yelled at the boy. "Run!"
The boy didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled off his chair, tripped over his own feet, and bolted out of the room. I watched him go, but I couldn't follow. The author was already pinning me to the floor. His grip felt like stone, hard and unmoving.

"You're a glitch," the author hissed. He was a mess of paper and ink, his face constantly shifting between faces I had seen in my dreams. "You weren't supposed to get out. You were supposed to stay in the loop."

"I’m not a glitch," I said, catching my breath. I kicked him in the stomach, hard. He didn't even grunt. "I’m the person who’s going to end this."
"You can't end a story that’s already been sold," he laughed. He raised the scissors.
I looked around the room for something, anything to fight with. My eyes landed on the computer. It was still on. The cursor was blinking, waiting for someone to type.
If he’s made of story, then he needs a script, I realized.

I stopped fighting him and went limp. "Fine. You win. Go ahead and finish it."
The author looked surprised. He lowered the scissors just a tiny bit. "That’s it? You’re just giving up? You fought for a hundred chapters just to quit now?"
"It’s not quitting," I said. I looked past him, right at the glowing monitor. "I’m just letting you have your ending."

He grinned, showing too many teeth. He didn't notice me inching closer to the desk. "Good. Finally, some sense. Now, let’s see how your story wraps up."
He started to stand up, his eyes turning toward the screen, ready to see himself win. That was his mistake. He was so busy being the villain, he forgot that I was the hero.
I lunged. I didn't go for him; I dove for the keyboard.

My fingers flew across the plastic keys. I didn't know how to code, and I didn't know how to write a perfect ending, but I knew my own name. I typed 'Logan is the writer.'
The author let out a sound like a wet paper towel tearing. He started to shrink. His clothes, which looked like they were made of newspapers, started to flutter and fly off him.
"What are you doing?" he screamed. "That’s not the plot! You can’t change the plot!"
"I’m not changing it," I said, typing as fast as I could. "I’m writing my own."
I didn't stop. I typed everything I had been through. I typed about the bus, the tower, the arena, and the fake wife. I typed about Sarah. I typed about how much I wanted to be real.

The room began to fade. The walls turned into white light. The author was just a pile of scraps now, a man made of old headlines and bad news.

"You'll never be free," he rasped, his voice dying away. "Even if you win, you’re still just a series of words on a screen. Someone is always reading you. Someone is always judging your next move."
"Let them watch," I said.

I hit the Enter key one last time.
The author didn't die. He didn't explode. He just turned into a single, small piece of paper. It floated down to the floor, light as a feather.
The room was gone. The boy was gone. The computer was gone. I was back in the white void, but this time, I wasn't falling. I was standing on solid ground.

I looked around. Sarah was there. She wasn't glowing. She wasn't a character. She was wearing her normal clothes, standing right in front of me.
"Did we do it?" she asked.

I looked at my hands. They were solid. I took a breath, and it felt like real air. "I think so. I think we’re in the last chapter."
"What now?"
I pulled out the notebook. It was heavy, and it felt warm. I opened it to the very last page. There was nothing there. Just a blank, white space.

"Now," I said, "we decide what happens next."
I looked at Sarah. She smiled, and for the first time, it didn't look like she was following a script. It looked like she was happy.
"Whatever we want?" she asked.

"Whatever we want," I said.
I picked up a pen from the ground, not a magic one, just a regular, cheap one, and I touched it to the page.

I felt a tickle in my mind. A new idea. A new world. But before I could write, the ground beneath us cracked open.
It wasn't a trap. It was a door.
We looked down. Through the crack, we could see a house. Our house. The real one. The one with the messy kitchen and the books on the floor.
"It's finished," Sarah whispered.
We stepped through the door.
We landed on the rug in the living room. It was afternoon. Sun poured in through the windows. It was quiet. So quiet.
I walked over to the window and looked out. People were living their lives. No monsters. No scissors. No authors.
"We're home," I said.
I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. It felt so good to do something so simple. I filled the glass at the sink. I took a drink. It was cold. It was real.
I walked back into the living room, ready to tell Sarah that we were okay. But she wasn't there.
"Sarah?" I called out.
No answer.
"Sarah?"
I looked around. The room was empty. The books on the floor were gone. The messy coffee cup was gone. The house wasn't just quiet; it was cold.
I ran to the front door and pulled it open.
There was no street. There was no city.
There was only a giant, endless wall of bookshelves, stretching forever. And standing on a ladder, reaching for a book, was the boy from the bedroom.
He looked down at me and smiled.
"Thanks for finishing it," he said. "The ending was perfect."
He pulled a lever on the wall.
The floor under my feet turned into a trapdoor, and I fell into the dark.