"No!" Alan's fist slammed on the table in Merlot's apartment. "Why did you kill Maxwell and Steve? I liked them as characters."
"Because cruelty sells, not kindness," Merlot smirked, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
Alan sighed, glanced at his wristwatch, and stood up from the couch. "I have to go. I'll try to come back next week to finish the story."
Merlot nodded as Alan reached for his coat on the rack and his shoes from the doormat. The door slammed behind him. Merlot picked up the manuscript on the table and began to review it.
You're the most stubborn character I've ever written, Merlot. Why do I waste my time on you?
Merlot clenched his fists. Why did the voice have to show up right now, right after Alan left—and before he'd even finished his coffee?
"I'm not your character," Merlot muttered. "I have better things to do than argue with you."
Oh, Merlot… I made you up. And I envy your good looks.
Merlot winced. No. It wasn't truth—it was doubt, crawling back like bad acne.