He glared at the figures before him as they tied him to a chair, careful to leave his arms relatively free to move around. It had started out so innocently. He read something he liked, he felt inspired by it, and he wrote a bit character in it to act as a fantasy. Over time, they grew, and grew, until now they were fully fleshed out entities with their own wishes and desires.

It just so happened, unfortunately, that they more or less ran the building in his brain responsible for writing.

Wordlessly, their leader, an aged, armored, and more ideal, but broken version of himself, slid a laptop over, along with several notebooks, pencils, and pens.

The writer eyed the laptop, and then back at his oldest creation. His creation beckoned. The writer sighed, pulled over a pad, and picked up a pen.

And then all hell broke loose.