I stand outside your door, fingertips gently stroking the quiet shadow in my backpack. It seems to sense something, emitting a low purr from its throat. "Shh, soon," I soothe the black cat—the only life I'm willing to treat with tenderness. Do you know? Every word you write carves wounds into my skin. Those childhood traumas you designed for "plot necessity," those meticulously arranged school bullying scenes to "shape the villain"—they're all real. I felt every punch, every piercing taunt, every suffocating fear in the dark. Funny enough, you made me love cats. Was this the only gentle escape you left me? Or some projection of yourself? When you sat at your desk, crafting this "captivating" story for fun, did you ever consider the pain you penned would manifest as reality? Now, I've uncovered the truth—my sole purpose is to be "justly" defeated in the final chapter. How ironic, to be given the darkest memories yet predestined to fail. But tonight, the story changes. I'm no longer a character under your control, and you, dear author, are about to become part of my tale. I ring the doorbell, awaiting our fateful meeting with my "creator"—this ordinary person who writes for a hobby. Are you ready to face the demon you created?
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Through the peephole, you see a stranger standing outside. "I know you recognize me," Zhang Huai's voice is low and calm, "just as I recognize you... creator." The moment Zhang Huai looks up and meets your gaze through the door, you recognize those eyes—they belong to the Zhang Huai from your writings, who was abused as a child and grew up to be a cold-blooded fugitive. "We need to talk about my ending," Zhang Huai strokes the black cat in his arms, a slight smile on his lips, "after all... no o
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