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He couldn’t remember when he had stopped seeing himself in her eyes, their marriage becoming simply a collection of memories, where only the mundane held them together.
It seemed so simple at first: creation. Characters whose lives he carved out in his novel. And now this: a man created in his own image and likeness, stepping out of the virtual into the real, in order to seduce his wife.
But Michael quickly loses control over his creation and slips into a world where he no longer knows where reality ends and fiction begins. And he begins to wonder if he is writing himself out of existence.
At what point does fiction turn to lies? And lies themselves in turn become real?
