The police come.
Of course they do. Stories like this pretend systems still work even when the universe has clearly stopped following protocol.
He sits on his couch while strangers walk through his apartment, their voices muffled and distant, like he's underwater. Someone asks him his name twice. Someone else asks if he knew the woman well.
"Yes," he says, then, "No," then, "We worked together."
All of these are true. None of them matter.
Mara's name is written down. Spelled correctly. That detail sticks with him more than it should.
They don't ask about the words on the elevator screen.
They don't ask about the smile that wasn't hers.
They don't ask why he was already shaking before she fell.
They chalk it up to shock. They always do. Shock is a convenient drawer—everything confusing gets shoved inside and labeled later.
Later never comes.
When they leave, it's dark outside. Night arrived without asking permission.
He stands alone in his apartment, staring at the closed door, half-expecting it to knock back.
It doesn't.
The silence is unbearable.
"Say something," he whispers.
Nothing.
The voice—the narrator, the thing pretending to be structure—has gone quiet.
That scares him more than the messages.
He paces. Three steps. Turn. Three steps back. The room feels smaller now, like the walls have leaned in to listen.
"You did this," he says, louder. "You said nothing important would happen."
Silence.
He laughs weakly. "That was the lie, right? That's the clever part?"
Still nothing.
He goes to the drawer.
He knows what's inside. He also knows it doesn't matter whether he opens it or not. The story will proceed either way. Choice is decorative at this point.
He pulls the drawer open.
The papers are gone.
In their place is a notebook.
Black cover. Unmarked. Slightly worn, like it's been handled by someone who didn't own it.
He flips it open.
The first page is blank.
The second page reads:
You're not supposed to notice the seams this early.
His hands tremble.
"The seams of what?" he demands.
The page doesn't answer.
He flips again.
Most protagonists don't start asking questions until Chapter Five or Six.
You're ahead of schedule.
A chill crawls up his spine.
"So what?" he says. "You kill me early instead?"
The page remains still for a beat.
Then new words bleed through, ink darkening as if pressed from the other side.
Don't flatter yourself.
He slams the notebook shut.
"No," he says. "No more notes. No more screens. If you want to talk, talk."
The lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then his television turns on by itself.
Static fills the screen, hissing softly.
He doesn't own cable.
Words cut through the noise, white against black.
You really shouldn't be addressing me directly.
"There you are," he says. His voice breaks on the last word. "You let her die."
The static crackles.
I didn't push her.
"You made it happen."
Yes.
The honesty stuns him.
"What's the difference. You said nothing important would happen."
I said it would be easier to miss.
He sinks onto the edge of the couch.
"This isn't a story," he says. "This is my life."
The static pauses.
Then:
That distinction matters less than you think.
Anger surges up, hot and reckless.
"You're talking to me," he says. "You respond. That means you're not in control the way you pretend to be."
The static spikes. The image distorts.
Careful, the words say again, but now there's strain beneath them. Like a voice raised just enough to hide panic.
He stands.
"No," he says. "You be careful. You slipped. You lied. You involved someone else."
The screen flickers.
For half a second—just one—another image overlays the static.
A man.
Older. Thinner. Eyes hollow with something that looks like exhaustion sharpened into madness.
The man stares straight through the screen.
Straight at him.
Then the image is gone.
His breath catches.
"Who was that?" he whispers.
The television goes black.
His phone vibrates.
A single message appears.
You weren't supposed to see him yet.
The room feels suddenly wrong—not thin this time, but crowded. As if something unseen has leaned closer.
"Who," he repeats, louder now.
The reply comes slowly.
Reluctantly.
He asked the same questions you keep asking.
Cold understanding seeps in.
"Another protagonist."
A pause.
Yes.
"And he noticed the seams too."
Another pause. Longer.
He made it to Chapter Fifteen.
His heart stutters. "You said the protagonist dies."
He did.
The words appear one by one now, deliberate, heavy.
Just not the way you're thinking.
The lights flicker again.
Outside, somewhere far too close, something heavy slams shut—metal on metal, like a door never meant to reopen.
He looks at the notebook in his hands.
At the empty first page.
"Why am I still alive?" he asks.
The phone vibrates once more.
Because the story needs to be told by someone.
The notebook twitches.
Just slightly.
As if inviting him to write.
And somewhere—far beyond the walls of the apartment, far beyond the city, far beyond the page—
The reader notices something.
This chapter was never supposed to explain anything.
If you felt clarity just now, that was the mistake.
Chapter Four isn't about answers.
It's about the moment you realize the narrator is losing control.