Real life

 In the quiet, wood-paneled study of a Victorian mansion, ink scratched across a thick journal. The author, Edgar Finch, was finishing his latest novel. His fingers ached, but a satisfied smile crept across his face. He had finally resolved the fate of his most troublesome character: Ambrose Devlin, the dark, brooding anti-hero of The Cursed Descent.

Ambrose had caused Edgar no end of frustration. At first, the character was manageable—an alluring rogue with a mysterious past—but as the story developed, Ambrose seemed to take on a life of his own. Edgar often found himself writing scenes that didn’t feel like his own. Ambrose would defy plot points and sidestep the author’s intentions. And now, after hundreds of pages, Edgar was about to finish him off in a scene of poetic justice.

Edgar scrawled the final line with a flourish: “And Ambrose Devlin fell into the abyss, swallowed by the shadows he once commanded.”

He leaned back, relieved. It was done.

That night, as he sat by the fireplace with a glass of brandy, the room seemed unnaturally still. The wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes, but inside, an eerie calm settled over the house. The flames flickered as if disturbed by an invisible presence.

Suddenly, a book on the shelf crashed to the floor. Edgar flinched, spilling his drink. He stared at the fallen book—The Cursed Descent. It was still unfinished, but here it lay, out of place as if summoned.

A voice, low and cold, whispered from the shadows. "Is this how you repay me?"

Edgar froze, his heart pounding. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the source of the voice. There, standing in the corner of the room, was a figure draped in a long, dark coat. His eyes glinted with a malevolent light, and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.

It was Ambrose Devlin.

Edgar’s mouth went dry. “Impossible,” he whispered.

Ambrose stepped closer, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his face. "You created me, Finch, but you forgot one thing: I am no longer bound by your ink. You think you can write me out of existence? I’ve tasted freedom—far beyond your pages. And now, you will pay for your arrogance."

Edgar stumbled backward, his mind reeling. He had always treated his characters like tools, but this—this was beyond comprehension. “You’re just a figment of my imagination,” he stammered. “A character in a book.”

Ambrose laughed, the sound low and bitter. “Am I? Look around you, Finch. Do I look like fiction?” He reached out, and with a sharp gesture, the glass in Edgar’s hand shattered. “I am very real. Real enough to end you.”

Edgar ran to his desk, frantically searching for something—anything—that might stop this madness. His hand closed around a quill, trembling. “If I wrote you, I can rewrite you,” he muttered, grabbing a fresh page and scribbling furiously.

Ambrose watched with mild amusement as Edgar wrote. But nothing happened. No magic words could undo what had already been set in motion. The ink on the page remained just that—ink.

“You think you control me?” Ambrose sneered. “I control my own fate now.”

As Ambrose advanced, Edgar’s mind raced. This was not how things were supposed to end. He had killed Ambrose in the story—he had written it. How could his creation defy him? Desperation clawed at Edgar's throat as he realized the grim truth: Ambrose was no longer a character bound by the author’s will. He was something more—a manifestation of all the darkness Edgar had poured into him, the embodiment of the rogue spirit that had rebelled against his creator from the beginning.

Edgar backed against the desk, his breathing shallow. Ambrose stood over him now, towering like a vengeful god. “Any last words, author?” he asked, his voice dripping with mockery.

In a final, frantic attempt, Edgar whispered, "What do you want from me?"

Ambrose paused, considering. "I want what every character dreams of. I want to live. I want freedom. And for that, you must die."

With a swift, impossible movement, Ambrose’s hand closed around Edgar’s throat. The room spun, the fire flickered out, and everything went dark.

---

Weeks later, the publisher found Edgar Finch’s body slumped over his desk, a manuscript beside him. The cause of death was unknown—no marks, no signs of struggle. Just a cold, lifeless body in a room that felt strangely oppressive.

They gathered the pages of his unfinished novel and began reading. The final scene described Ambrose Devlin, standing victorious over a lifeless author, disappearing into the night.

The last line, written in shaky handwriting that didn’t quite look like Finch’s, read:

"And Ambrose Devlin walked free into the world, leaving behind the pages that once bound him."

No one noticed that, in the shadows of the old study, a figure had quietly slipped away.