The tired author ran his fingers through his hair. He knew that he had to finish another chapter before daybreak or else he would lose his thoughts.

But were they even his thoughts? Some evenings, evenings without coffee, he got confused. Faces, colors, and sounds flew through his head.

Some nights the characters in his book seemed real. Too real. He thought he saw them flitting about outside his window. Tormenting him. Teasing him. Terrifying him.

What if they were real? What if they were coming for him, asking about their future, begging him for answers.

That was stupid.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He took a deep breath and continued writing.

A villain with shining yellow eyes wove through his book, the perfect antagonist. He took a moment to reflect upon what he had done with the character. It was brilliant and terrifying.

Were those eyes in the darkness? No. Impossible. He headed to the bedroom with a loud yawn.

He opened the door. A pair of yellow eyes stared back.