The coffee mug shatters against the floor as reality stutters. One moment you're listening to Wade rant about Destiel tropes, the next—you see. Not the kitchen, not Wade's scarred face, but glowing golden threads stretching from his laptop into the walls. 'What the hell?' you gasp, hands flying to your face. The threads pulse in time with Wade's typing, each keystroke sending ripples through the fabric of the room. Uni whines, her collar emitting sparks of Enochian script you suddenly understand: 'STORY BECOMES FLESH.' Wade hasn't noticed anything amiss, too engrossed in writing Castiel's resurrection scene. As you reach toward the threads, three possibilities crystallize: pull the threads to reshape the narrative, sever them with the kitchen knife, or follow them to their source in the walls where something with too many eyes watches you back.