The alert popped up on her laptop at 10:16 PM.
[1 New Entry: Archive Watch Triggered — Keyword: "Storyteller"]
Anaya's breath caught.
She clicked the link.
The screen blinked once, then loaded a blank black page with pale green text. The post had no title, no username.
Just the first line:
"She always worked late. The office light stayed on long after the others had gone. She told herself it was duty. But it was fear."
Anaya kept reading.
The second paragraph described a cluttered desk, a worn leather chair, a photo in a cracked frame. A coffee ring. An empty drawer where she kept a gun she hadn't drawn in weeks.
It was her desk.
The story didn't say her name. But it didn't have to.
Every sentence painted her exactly.
"She never read the endings first. She believed in letting the story decide how it wanted to die."
Her fingers hovered over the touchpad.
The bottom of the screen shifted.
New text appeared—one line, typed right in front of her eyes:
"And tonight, the story ends."
Anaya stared at the screen.
A fresh line appeared, right beneath the last.
"She wore the dark grey sweater. The one with the frayed sleeve."
She looked down.
She was wearing it.
She hadn't even noticed the fraying until now.
Another line appeared.
"There was still coffee in her mug, cold now. She drank it anyway, out of habit."
She turned her head slightly. The mug sat on the windowsill. Half-full. She hadn't touched it in an hour, but still, her hand moved to pick it up.
She didn't drink.
The screen updated again.
"She hesitated."
Her heart thudded.
She opened the browser tools, scanned the code—nothing unusual. No signs of live chat, no backend she could access. And yet… someone was typing. Watching. Matching her, movement for movement.
She tried scrolling up.
But the older paragraphs were changing too. Small words swapped out, whole lines rephrased. She couldn't keep up.
A new sentence appeared:
"She wondered when it had started. When the writing stopped being about others. When it became hers."
Anaya stood.
The story didn't update.
She took two slow steps away from the desk.
Still nothing.
Then:
"She moved. Too late."
Anaya stepped back toward the desk and scrolled to the most recent lines.
"She was still at the office. Half an hour past her usual leaving time. The janitor hadn't arrived yet. The building was quiet."
She froze.
That wasn't right.
She was home.
Right now.
Wearing the sweater. Standing in front of the screen. Reading.
And whoever was writing this… didn't know that.
She reached for her phone. No calls. No messages.
She opened her security feed. No motion alerts. No camera pings.
But she hadn't checked the cameras since earlier that day.
And if they had counted on her being at the office...
Then someone had planned to be here without her knowing.
She looked back at the screen.
"He stepped in through the rear door, moving slowly, careful not to let it creak."
She didn't have a rear door.
She had a closet.
A utility space with no camera. No sensor.
And no lock.
Anaya grabbed her weapon from the drawer and moved to the hall, heart pounding.
She passed the kitchen.
The light above the stove still burned—she always left it on.
"She always left the light on. Habit."
Another line had appeared on the screen behind her.
She didn't go back to read it.
The floor creaked under her step.
She held her breath.
Another sound—barely there—came from behind the closet door. Not movement. Just presence. A shift in weight. Like someone leaning against the wall from the inside.
She raised the gun, slowly, careful not to let the metal scrape against the wall.
One foot back.
One breath in.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
She didn't move.
The screen of her laptop blinked once—light flickering off the cabinets.
Then a line appeared, unseen by her but still glowing:
"She noticed too late."
Her hand reached the doorknob.
It was warm.
Not from the house.
From a person.
She didn't wait.
She kicked the door in and stepped back—
The closet was empty.
No body.
No figure.
But on the floor, inside, lay something small.
A folded piece of paper.
She knelt slowly, picked it up.
Four words written in block letters, ink still wet:
"Wrong chapter, Detective Anya."
---
End of Chapter 7.