The Registry had to realize that the quality of stories being churned out year by year was decreasing. They had turned a beautiful craft into slave labor, and even the best writers were suffering. Maybe they were finally considering other options, other talents.

She skipped on the way to the Publishing House and waited in the lobby with her big black portfolio in hand. It was bulky and heavy, but she cherished the weight. When the secretary called her to the back to meet with Publisher Tile, she was calm. She was ready.

Until she stepped into the bare room where center stage was a man tied to a chair. Strange. His shaggy hair fell over his bruised face. When he heard her gasp, his head jerked up. "Wordless! Get out of here! It's a trap!"

Her thick hair whipped across her face as her lips parted in a soundless cry, eyes searching for who had done this. Three men in business suits sprinted toward her. Her portfolio was snatched from her arms, no shield. Her paintings spilled out of the bag and were kicked away as they grabbed her arms. Wordless cried out at the pain of their brutal manhandling. "Strange, what's going on?!"

"You have to come with us," a stoic editor muttered.

"Why is he here? What are you doing to him? Strange!"

"Leave her alone, you bastards! It's me you want!" Strange growled. It was futile. He couldn't break the bonds that held him. All he could do was watch in horror as they carried her away.

Wordless was dragged from the chamber with Strange's hollow shout ringing after her. Tile waited for her in an isolated interrogation room where no one would learn of her answers to the questions that he posed.

"Did he write for you?"

"Please, you have to let him go. It's not his fault," she sobbed. Wordless wrestled against the handcuffs around her wrists. Tears slid down her face, no use. He stared at her like she was a word he didn't understand the meaning to but that he would figure out.

"Where is your manuscript, Ms. Everett." His voice was terrifyingly devoid of emotion.

"Sir, if I can show you my art, I can show you my story. I am not a writer, but I have...so many stories in my head. I promise you I will do it myself if you'll only let him go."

"He's being deleted as we speak."

"What?" The syllable was hoarse. The scream was ragged. "No! No!!! Strange!" She jerked maniacally at her restraints, but the chair was bolted to the floor. Her lustrous hair floated around her tear-streaked face as she shook her head in denial. "You can't do this to him! You can't!"

Tile nodded matter-of-factly. "We cannot afford to allow such an egregious breach of contract from our writers. The Registry of Authorship expects everyone to have their own unique voice. Mr. Luz understood the risk he took by breaking our laws, and he has to be held accountable for his actions. And, as for you..."