Add: Rebellious

The chapter had ended.

I uploaded it to the site, heart still pounding from what had just unfolded. The comment section, usually quiet and slow to populate, had lit up almost instantly. Readers were already reading. And then it happened.

One of them submitted a change to the prompt.

Add: Rebellious.

Just that. One word. But it echoed like thunder.

I glanced back at the draft screen. The digital text shimmered strangely, and the screen dimmed for a breathless moment—then inside Stephanie's world, the page turned itself. A fresh sheet. A new chapter.

And in the library, deep within that impossible place between fiction and form, Stephanie felt it.

The illustration in the ancient book shifted before her frozen eyes. Ink bled outward, lines thickening and reforming. Her green dress deepened in tone, its neckline plunging lower, exposing the top of her chest. The fabric reshaped, hugging her curves more tightly. The subtle support of her bra—gone. The change was intimate, tactile. And she felt every moment of it.

She gasped.

"What is happening now?" she asked, her voice trembling but tinged with something new—something harder.

I fumbled with the keyboard. The text box blinked open, welcoming me again.

"Someone added a new word to the prompt," I typed quickly. "Rebellious."

Her eyes, wide behind her glasses, narrowed slightly. The fear that had colored her voice earlier was giving way to frustration, and beneath that, a dawning realization of control—or lack thereof.

"So now I'm... this? Because someone decided I should be?"

Stephanie let out a breathless, incredulous laugh.

"That’s insane. So what, if someone writes 'bald' or 'blind' or 'naked'—I just become that?"

"Please, Stephanie, don't give then ideas," I warned, the irony of knowing that if i weren't the speaking to her, of sharing in this bizarre situation, that I would be the type of person to add those prompts, was not lost on me. "But yes. It seems like that’s how it works."

She looked down—or tried to. Her eyes were all that could move, but she could feel the differences. The bareness of her chest beneath the altered dress. The pulse of defiance blooming in her chest.

"I feel different," she said slowly.

I stared at the screen. My fingers hovered above the keys.

"You're not just scared anymore."

"No," she said. "I’m angry. And if this world is written by strangers... then I need to find a way to write myself."

A flicker of something passed over the illustration—an expression of cunning, boldness, the kind of look someone wears before they break the rules.

Time moved again.

It was subtle at first. The candlelight flickered—not a still image or a perfect sculpture of flame, but real fire, dancing and casting moving shadows across the marble floor. A distant breeze stirred the thick, ancient air of the library. The weight that had pinned Stephanie in place slowly lifted, and with a gasp, she stumbled forward, catching herself on a nearby bookshelf.

Her fingers trembled. She touched her chest, feeling the change in her dress. The neckline that had deepened. The absence of her bra. It was real.

And yet… not.

Stephanie adjusted her glasses and steadied her breath. The panic had receded. What took its place was a surreal, dangerous clarity.

"This can't be real," she whispered aloud. "I'm just tired. Hallucinating. There’s no way that some… 'writer' is talking to me."

She turned slowly in place. The vast library stretched around her—an impossible cathedral of knowledge carved into the bones of a mountain.

Her fingers itched. She needed to write. Record. Do something.

Her eyes caught the edge of the ancient book still lying open on the desk. The page she had last seen—her illustrated self.

And below the illustration was the new prompt:

(Ginger. White, very curly hair. Small breasts. Tall. Smart. Glasses. Dress. Rebellious.)

Stephanie stared.

A single word had changed something inside her. She could feel the scars of the change.

She walked. The thunk of boots echoed across old flag stone, bouncing between towers of books and staircases that wound like vines.

"Hey," she said aloud. "Are you there? The... writer? Typist? God?"

I flinched. Her words typed themselves across my screen, unprompted.

She kept walking, her voice louder now. "You said this was a collaborative site. Readers submit changes. Prompts. Do they know what they're doing? That I'm real in here?"

I hesitated. I typed slowly.

“They think it’s fiction. A fun project. No one knows it’s real. I didn’t either—until you looked at me.”

Stephanie’s lip curled. “Then they’re gods and devils, and they don’t even know it.”

She turned a corner and froze. A door stood at the end of the corridor, larger than any she’d yet seen. Old wood. Brass handle. It had not been there before.

“Do I get a say?” she asked, quieter now. “Do I get to choose what to change?”

I typed the only answer I could give.

“I don’t think so. I tried editing the prompt myself after the last chapter, but it was rejected. It only let me input something from the comments. I suppose... you could ask them to suggest something."

The candles dimmed. The wind picked up.

And Stephanie pushed the door open.

Time froze again, she was stuck in place. Aware of the frozen world around her, aware of me, and now, aware of you. Aware that the chapter was ending.

"Well, in that case." She sighed. "Hey, readers or gods or whatever you are. Could you suggest a change to help me understand this whole thing? Something like... erm..."

She paused. Thinking of how to phrase her suggestion.

"... full understanding of this old book and how the cult worshipped it."

"That's a little long." I commented. The sarcasm clear, even in text.

"Well I don't know how this shit works." Stephanie snapped. "You're the God inside the magic book."

"I'm sure the readers will come up with something." I replied.