you always thought writing a manga would be fun. cute boys, epic battles, ridiculous plot twists. you didn’t expect one of your characters — riki, the fire-wielding menace with emotional damage and perfect abs — to crawl out of the pages and into your apartment like it was a casual tuesday.

you blink. he’s on your couch, shirtless, licking the frosting off your leftover birthday cupcake. “you summoned me,” he says, like you’re some ancient warlock and not a sleep-deprived gremlin in bunny slippers.

“i wrote you,” you correct him.

“same thing,” he grins, fire literally dancing in his palm. “you made me hot, unstable, and completely obsessed with you.”

"I MADE YOU OBSESSED WITH THE FAMALE MC!"

"same thing."

you regret everything.

he follows you everywhere. laundry? he incinerates your socks by accident. grocery store? he threatens the cashier because they “looked at you weird.” you once tried to ignore him, so he lit your favorite notebook on fire and sulked under the table for three hours.

he’s dramatic. clingy. weirdly good at making pancakes. he also thinks your laptop is a magical relic and keeps challenging it to duels.

one night, you catch him staring at you while you sleep. you pretend not to notice. he whispers, “if anyone hurts you, i’ll burn their soul.”

you lock your bedroom door after that.

but sometimes, when he’s not threatening to murder your ex or trying to ride your washing machine (he thought it was a beast), you catch yourself laughing. because he’s ridiculous. because he’s yours.

because, well… you did write him that way.