Dust choked the air, thick and gritty, tasting of old paper and shattered stone. Alex coughed, pain flaring in his ribs as tons of what used to be the library's proud ceiling thundered down around him. The Inevitable Demise Plot Thread, aimed squarely at his head only seconds before, still pulsed like a fading, angry heartbeat in his unique vision. But it wasn't locked onto him anymore.
There had been no time to think, no moment for clever analysis. Just raw, animal terror and a desperate, instinctive push. As the world had narrowed to the terrifying rush of falling concrete, he'd seen it – a massive, sturdy oak bookshelf to his left, groaning under its own load of encyclopedias. Not him. There! He'd focused all his panic, all his sudden, unwanted clarity, on that single, desperate thought: Not me. Hit that!
It was like trying to shove a ghost. A strange, mental effort, a bizarre feeling of give in the very fabric of what was happening. And then, the impossible. The main cascade of debris, the truly crushing part, had veered. Not much, just a few critical feet. It struck the oak bookshelf with the sound of a bomb, instantly turning wood and bound volumes into an explosive cloud of splinters and shredded paper.
Alex was still hit. A wave of smaller rubble and a dislodged light fixture slammed into him, throwing him from his chair. Pain erupted along his arm and a sharp crack echoed in his skull as his head hit the overturned reference desk. Darkness nibbled at the edges of his vision. But he was alive. Bruised, bleeding, ears ringing like a fire alarm, but undeniably alive.
A new awareness overlaid the pain. A number, clear in his mind's eye, previously a solid Narrative Energy: 100/100, now read Narrative Energy: 60/100. It had cost him something, that desperate shove against fate.
He pushed himself up, wincing. The library was a ruin. Twisted metal, shattered glass, and mountains of books formed a new, chaotic landscape under the sickly purple-grey sky visible through gaping holes in the roof. Screams still echoed, mixed with groans and a terrifying, spreading silence.
And the Roles. They were everywhere.
A uniformed security guard, a man Alex knew as Bill, was shakily getting to his feet, a bent piece of metal shelving clutched in his hand like a makeshift club. The air around Bill shimmered, and the ghostly script appeared: Role: Makeshift Guardian (Untrained). A young woman, one of the student volunteers, was stuffing fallen snacks from a shattered vending machine into her backpack, her movements quick and furtive: Role: Looter (Desperate). Others were less active. One man just sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, wailing: Role: Hysterical Civilian (Useless). Another stood frozen, staring blankly at a flickering emergency light: Role: Frozen by Fear (Soon Doomed?).
They're so simple, Alex thought, his mind latching onto the analysis even through the haze of pain. Direct. Obvious. Not like… Plot Editor. His own label felt heavy, complicated, and utterly useless in a fight.
His head throbbed, but his thoughts raced, trying to fit the pieces of this nightmare together. This confirms it. It's a Story, a cosmic play. These are character roles being assigned, or maybe… solidified by their actions. He remembered his own instinctive "nudge," the shift in the falling debris. It wasn't luck. I influenced the script. I changed my own immediate fate. But how? And that Narrative Energy… it's a resource. A limited one.
He needed to understand. How were these Roles given? Did they come with abilities, beyond just a label? The Makeshift Guardian now looked a tiny bit more determined, his grip on the metal bar firmer. The Looter seemed faster, more agile in her desperate gathering.
Then, through a cloud of dust, Alex saw something that made his stomach clench. A man he didn't recognize, thin and wiry, with eyes that darted around like hungry rats, was roughly shoving an older woman – Mrs. Henderson, Alex realized with a jolt, her face pale with shock but otherwise seemingly unharmed from her earlier barcode battle. The man snatched a small purse from her grasp. The ghostly script around him flared, sharp and cruel: Role: Violent Opportunist (Low-Tier Predator).
Alex saw the Plot Thread for the small, nasty event. It was a dark, ugly little knot in the overall chaos, labeled Minor Conflict: Theft Under Duress. It felt "scripted," inevitable in a situation like this, yet the woman's gasp of fear, the man's sneering triumph – those were sickeningly real.
For a fleeting second, Alex thought about intervening, about trying another "nudge." But the Violent Opportunist was already slinking away into the ruins. Alex's Narrative Energy felt dangerously low, a deep ache in his mind. And the "script" of that particular cruelty felt too strong, too fast, already concluded. He was a "Plot Editor," not a hero cop from a movie. The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth. His power, whatever it was, had sharp, painful limits.
The library groaned again, a long, drawn-out sound that promised more collapse. Dust rained down. Staying here was a death sentence; the "script" of this location was clearly "Tragedy and Destruction." He had to get out. He needed to find somewhere safer, somewhere he could think, somewhere he could try to understand what was happening to his world, to him.
His gaze fell on a doorway at the far end of what used to be the main reading room. It was partially blocked by a fallen pillar, but he could see a sliver of the unnatural purple daylight beyond. A Plot Thread, thin and wavering, led towards it, labeled: Potential Escape Route (Uncertain Outcome).
He took a shaky breath, his injured arm protesting. His head swam. Every instinct screamed at him to find a hole and hide. But the knowledge of the Plot Editor Role, the sight of those terrible, beautiful Plot Threads, urged him forward. This was no longer just chaos. This was a Story he was trapped in.
The prologue was over, he thought, a strange, detached calm settling over his fear. Now, for the first act.
Ignoring the pain, Alex pushed himself away from the wreckage of the reference desk and started towards the uncertain light.