Your life was one of a kind. You were living thrilling adventures, passionate relationships and had a life of mystery. But that was until you realised that you were actually living…in a book. You were a character, written by someone, who built you, your past and your whole universe. Being self conscious of your condition was a thing, but then you realised you must be able to get out of this fake reality, get out of the book.

You ended up in what looked like a desk, with dimmed lights and bookshelves everywhere. In the middle of the room was a desk, filled with paper and used candles, and someone who seemed to scribble passionately, leaned over his desk as he didn’t even notice your presents. That person could only be your writer.