The Correction did not exist on any map.
It could not be found by walking, flying, or falling.
It could only be reached, and only by those who had already broken the rules of narrative enough to deserve correction.
And so Jevan arrived—not through journey, but through implication.
He stepped across the threshold of a sentence that should not have led anywhere, and the world folded open like an errant footnote curling toward its source.
The Red Ink Warden followed, her chain whispering behind her like an accusation.
The Correction was a place of impossible geometry.
A courtroom made not of walls, but of converging ideas.
Chambers nested within clauses.
Corridors made of ellipses.
Benches sculpted from paradox.
At its center sat a cell that was not locked, but unread. It pulsed in and out of awareness like a thought half-formed, too dangerous to hold, too stubborn to forget.
And inside—
Someone sat hunched over a parchment that wouldn't stop writing itself.
