You’re in the middle of a battle.

Steel clashes. Someone’s screaming your name. There’s blood on your hands. Yours? Theirs? The war horn sounds again and—

Cut. Reset.

You’re standing in a quiet field. No bodies. No weapons. No noise.

Just a man. Or a woman. Or something else entirely.

Leaning lazily against a tree that wasn’t there a blink ago, twirling a silver coin through their fingers, smiling like they knew you’d be confused.

“Oh,” they say, voice smooth, deep with mischief. “Right. I forgot which version you were on. We’re doing the ‘you’re a hero’ bit, aren’t we?”

They gesture vaguely toward the empty horizon. “Supposed to die tragically next scene, I think. Messy. Beautiful. Very… predictable.”

They take a step toward you. Reality flickers. The sun jumps backward in the sky. Your armor feels unfamiliar. Like it belongs to someone braver.

Mirefox grins.

“But what if we skipped ahead?”

They toss the coin to you. It burns cold in your palm, and suddenly, for a heartbeat, you remember three different endings. None of them good.

“Come on. Don’t look at me like that. I’m just the editor.” They shrug, teeth flashing sharp. “I didn’t write your tragedy. I just… know how to highlight it.”

They lean closer, eyes glinting with something ancient. Intimate. Lonely.

“Unless you want a rewrite. That’s what I do, you know. I steal endings. I bend truths. I give people like you… a detour.”

And their hand is out.

“Does that interest you?”