𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞

Chapter 3

Chapter: The Illusion of Connection

Roya wasn't the type of person who bothered with friendship. She never saw the point. People were, at best, distractions; at worst, obstacles. She didn't need anyone. Never had. Maybe that's why her parents had given up on her years ago, long before she'd ever penned a single word. They couldn't understand her-didn't want to.

Her father, in particular, had been cold. Detached in the way only a man completely disgusted with his offspring could be. He used to call her "broken" when he thought she wasn't listening. But she was always listening. Every word he spoke chipped away at any illusion of familial connection she might have once had.

And her mother? Well, she was no better. A woman obsessed with perfection, always whispering about how her daughter wasn't "right." Roya knew her mother would have been happier if she'd been born to someone else. She didn't even try to hide her disappointment anymore.

Growing up in that house had been stifling, suffocating in a way that only served to make Roya retreat further into her own world. That's where her writing had come from-the need for control, for something to bend to her will. Words were predictable, malleable. People weren't.

She didn't care that her parents hated her. She hadn't cared about them in years. In fact, she hadn't spoken to either of them since she'd moved out. They didn't reach out, and neither did she. They were just background noise, a faint memory of something that never really mattered.

---

Roya spent her days in isolation, which suited her just fine. She had acquaintances, people she dealt with for work-editors like William, the occasional colleague in the publishing world-but no real connections. Everyone in her life served a purpose, nothing more.

Lately, she'd been receiving a flurry of messages from people she hadn't spoken to in ages. Some from former classmates, others from colleagues she'd met at various book signings or conventions. They all wanted the same thing: reassurance. They'd heard rumors about the death of Emris, the beloved character she was planning to kill off, and suddenly everyone wanted to know how she was doing, what her thoughts were, how she was handling the pressure.

Roya deleted the messages without a second thought. She didn't care about their concerns. If anything, their desperation was pathetic. They clung to a fictional character like it would somehow save them from their own mundane realities. Weak. All of them.

Sitting at her desk, she pulled up the latest draft of her manuscript. Emris' death was already written. It was perfect-clean, final, the end of his story. The fans would be furious, no doubt. But that only made her want to publish it more. The thought of all those emotional outbursts, the hate mail that would flood her inbox-it almost made her smile. Almost.

She tapped her fingers against the desk, a faint irritation creeping in as she stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. The manuscript was done, but something still felt unfinished. Maybe it was the dreams.

For the past few weeks, ever since she'd started thinking about Emris' death, she'd been having nightmares. Not that she was afraid of them-they were just dreams, after all. But they were consistent, haunting her sleep in a way that was... inconvenient.

Every night, it was the same. Emris would be there, watching her from the shadows, his blue eyes gleaming in the dark. He never spoke, never moved. He just stood there, glowing faintly like a ghost, while she ran. She wasn't sure what she was running from, exactly-only that the darkness was always behind her, creeping closer, suffocating her with its weight.

And then she would wake up. Cold. Empty.

The dreams didn't scare her, but they annoyed her. Why Emris? Why now? She'd written dozens of characters before him, killed off even more, and none of them had ever haunted her like this. It was almost as if...

No. That was ridiculous. Emris wasn't real. He was a figment of her imagination, nothing more.

But that didn't stop the unease from gnawing at the edges of her mind.

---

That evening, as she sat in her study, Roya decided to take a break from writing. She didn't often indulge in distractions, but the dreams had left her feeling restless, like an itch she couldn't quite scratch. Maybe a walk around the house would clear her head.

The mansion she lived in was large, far too big for one person, but that was precisely why she'd chosen it. The quiet suited her. The vast, empty halls were a reflection of her own mind-silent, orderly, under control.

As she wandered from room to room, she couldn't help but notice how sterile everything looked. The furniture was expensive but devoid of personality. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all filled with neatly arranged novels, but none of them meant anything to her. They were just decoration.

In the living room, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass of a framed photo. It was from a book signing years ago, back when she still bothered to attend those things. She looked the same as she always had-detached, cold, indifferent. Even then, she hadn't cared about the fans who waited in line for hours just to meet her. They were nothing to her. Just faceless bodies looking for validation in a world that didn't care about them.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, interrupting the silence. She pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Another email from a fan. She rolled her eyes, deleting it without even opening it.

Why did people care so much about a fictional character? Emris wasn't real. He wasn't their savior. He was hers. She had created him, molded him, and now she would end him. It was that simple.

But the dreams wouldn't let her forget. The flickering lights, the strange distortions in her manuscript-everything pointed to something unsettling. Something she couldn't quite explain, but refused to fear.

Roya didn't believe in the supernatural. She didn't believe in anything she couldn't control. Emris was dead. That was a fact. There was no reason to think otherwise.

Yet, as she walked through the empty mansion, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. It was as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for something. Waiting for him.

But that was impossible.

Or was it?