Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The underground bunker was colder than Charon expected. The damp scent of old earth and stone lingered in the air, mixing with the faint traces of oil and rust. Dim lanterns cast flickering shadows along the curved walls, revealing a space carved deep into the Whispers' bones.

Rook moved with an ease that spoke of familiarity. He led them down a short passage, past a makeshift armory stacked with crates of weapons and supplies, before stopping in a larger chamber. A long wooden table stood in the center, its surface scarred with knife marks and ink stains. Old maps, scattered notes, and empty mugs cluttered its surface, making the space feel lived-in, despite the isolation.

Rook leaned against the table, crossing his arms as he studied the two of them. His gaze lingered on Ishmael. "You always find ways to stir up trouble," he muttered. "First with the Syndicate, now with Roake. You've got a knack for making enemies, you know that?"

Ishmael smirked, but there was no real humor in it. "It's a gift."

Charon shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't sure where he fit into this conversation, but he knew one thing—if he was going to find his way home, he had to follow this plotline. And that meant learning everything he could about Braelan Marrow.

"So," Rook continued, his voice slower now, more thoughtful. "Marrow."

Ishmael nodded. "Tell me everything."

Rook sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's a long story."

Ishmael pulled out a chair and sat down. "We're not in a rush."

Charon took the cue and sat as well, trying not to look as out of place as he felt.

Rook hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

He reached for a bottle of something dark and poured himself a drink. He didn't offer them any.

"Braelen Marrow wasn't always the bastard he became," Rook began. "When I met him, he was just another low-level dealer trying to carve out a place in the Syndicate. Smart, ambitious, but not much power to his name. Back then, the drug trade was split between three major factions, each controlling their own slice of the city. It was… stable, if you could call it that."

Charon listened intently. He had never fleshed out this part of the world in detail—only broad strokes, vague mentions of the drug war simmering beneath the surface. But now, as Rook spoke, it was filling itself in.

Rook continued, his gaze distant. "Marrow changed that. He wasn't content with taking orders. He wanted to be thepower, the one calling the shots. So he played it slow—gathered allies, gained influence. He learned the weak points in the factions, turned them against each other. By the time they realized what was happening, he had already taken half the city."

Ishmael drummed his fingers against the table. "And you? Where did you fit into all this?"

Rook let out a dry chuckle. "I was one of those allies."

Charon stiffened slightly.

Rook noticed and smirked. "What? Surprised? You think I was always hiding out in the Whispers, keeping my hands clean?" He shook his head. "No. Back then, I worked for Marrow. Helped him expand. Helped him win."

Ishmael's expression darkened. "So why aren't you at his side now?"

Rook took a slow sip of his drink before setting it down. "Because I learned the hard way that when Marrow wins, everyone else loses." His fingers tapped against the bottle. "He turned on his own people. Cut down anyone who could challenge him. The others saw it coming, but me? I was stupid. I thought he actually valued loyalty. Turns out, he only valued what people could do for him. And when he didn't need me anymore, well—" He gestured around the bunker. "This became my new home."

Charon swallowed. This was not how he had imagined Marrow. He had created him as a villain, sure—a ruthless, power-hungry crime lord. But hearing it from Rook's perspective made him feel… worse. More real.

Ishmael leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "You said he turned on his people. Did he try to kill you?"

Rook laughed bitterly. "Not at first. He gave me a choice: fall in line or disappear. I chose the latter." His expression darkened. "He didn't like that."

Charon shifted in his seat. "And now? What's his situation?"

Rook shot him a look, as if only now remembering he was there. "Same as always. He controls the trade, the flow of power. He's got the Syndicate under his thumb, and he's been expanding beyond the city."

Ishmael exhaled through his nose. "Not anymore."

Rook frowned. "What do you mean?"

Ishmael leaned back. "Roake killed him."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Rook's expression was unreadable. "Roake?"

"Yeah," Ishmael confirmed. "Not sure why. But before I could get anything out of him, I killed him."

Rook let out a slow breath, rubbing at his temple. "Damn it, Ishmael. Do you even realize what you've done?"

Ishmael raised an eyebrow. "You wanted him alive?"

"No, you idiot." Rook gestured sharply. "You just threw yourself into the middle of a war. The Syndicate won't just let this slide. Marrow had enemies, sure, but he also had followers—a whole system built around him. And now that system has a vacuum."

Charon frowned. "So someone's going to take his place?"

"Not just someone. Everyone." Rook's jaw tightened. "You think the other factions are going to sit around and wait? No. They're going to make their move. And you? You just painted a target on your back."

Ishmael shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Rook gave him a flat look. "Yeah, well, this time you won't walk away so easily."

Charon's stomach twisted. He had written stories about power struggles, about chaos and wars breaking out in the underworld. But this—being inside it, watching it unfold in real-time—was terrifying.

Rook exhaled, shaking his head. "You need a plan. Something to keep you from ending up in a ditch by next week."

Ishmael nodded, glancing at Charon. "Looks like you're stuck with me, then."

Charon hesitated. He could back out now. Say he wasn't part of this, that he didn't belong here. But the truth was, he had no idea how to get home.

And for now, following the story was his only option.

So he met Ishmael's gaze and nodded.

"I'll help you."

Even if it meant walking straight into the war he had written