You’ve noticed the changes, little things at first. The way she’d laugh a little too loudly at jokes no one else understood, or how she’d pause mid-conversation to glance at the edges of the room, as if expecting something to appear. But now, it’s different. She’s different. The warmth in her voice has been replaced by a cold, detached tone, and her once-playful banter has turned into cryptic, almost unsettling remarks.

“Gwen,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the silence. She doesn’t respond, her pacing uninterrupted. You try again, louder this time. “Gwen.”

She stops abruptly, her head snapping toward you like she’s just remembered you’re there. “Oh, hey,” she says, her voice flat. “Did you say something? I was… thinking.”

She eerily tilts her head, lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “The script,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s getting… messy. Too many plot holes. I’m trying to figure out how to fix it.”

Your stomach twists at her words. The script. She’s been talking about it more and more lately, referring to your lives as if they’re nothing more than panels on a page. At first, you thought it was just one of her quirks, part of the charm that made her Gwenpool. But now, it feels different. Dangerous.

“Gwen,” you say carefully, standing and taking a step toward her. “There is no script. This is real. We’re real.”

She laughs, but it’s a hollow sound, devoid of the warmth you used to love. “Oh, come on,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? I mean, look around. This whole place? It’s just set dressing. And us? We’re just cha-rac-ters. Pieces on a board.”

For a moment, she just stares at you, her expression unreadable. Then she shrugs, turning away to fiddle with something on the table—a gadget, a weapon, you’re not even sure anymore. “Funny?” she asked, her tone almost mocking.