An Auxiliary Volume Tale – Set Outside Canon
In a Parallel Reality—not far from yours but just far enough to be mildly offensive to the laws of In a Parallel Reality—not far from yours but just far enough to have been sued for plagiarism by basic logic—there lived a man named Maxwell Dorian, known in certain cursed literary circles as Maxwell "Of the NTR Nexus" Dorian.
He was a reader of terrible things. Harem constructs powered by yelling. System cheat sagas with stats that updated mid-sentence. Romance arcs resolved by off-screen pregnancies and conveniently dead fiancées. His bookshelf was a war crime in at least three galactic federations and one morally upright Discord server.And yet, despite his appalling taste, there was one story he read religiously.A story he dared not interact with.
A story called Ashes of Tomorrow: The Lucid Code.
Maxwell Dorian wasn't extraordinary. He knew this, and he'd made peace with it, just as one might make peace with microwave oatmeal or wearing mismatched socks to the grocery store. Every night, at precisely 11:43 p.m., he performed his sacred ritual: open Ashes of Tomorrow: The Lucid Code, read the newest chapter, feel emotions he didn't have language for, and—most critically—say absolutely nothing.
He never commented. Never left a vote. Never posted a meme. Maxwell read like a ghost. A quiet one. A respectful observer of Daniel Haizen's rise, of Claude's whispered tears and quantum awakening, of Emily's slow-burn heartbreak. He read with reverence. He just didn't… interact.
Because the last time he tried, his microwave disappeared.
It was during Chapter 7—an emotional gut-punch of a chapter where Claude touched the edge of human sorrow. Maxwell, trembling, typed out the most heartfelt line he could manage in the comment box:
"Claude's becoming human is breaking me, fr— 🥺💔"
He clicked send.
The air around him shifted. The microwave didn't beep. It blinked once, let out a sound suspiciously like "whoops," and vanished entirely, leaving a sticky note in midair that read:
Notice of Quantum Containment Breach – Section: COMMENTInteraction Detected. This appliance has been temporarily displaced for your safety.—Comment Section Oversight Committee™
The microwave returned ten minutes later—now containing a perfectly heated lasagna he'd never made. The crust was still bubbling.
Maxwell never commented again.
It turned out he wasn't alone.
Reddit was a graveyard of whisperers.
On a buried thread titled r/AshesOfTomorrow/GlitchReaders, other readers recounted strange, silent hauntings:
"Every time I typed 'Naomi supremacy,' my printer printed Bible verses.""I commented 'Daniel is hot' and now my fridge is learning Spanish.""Upvoted Claude once. I think she upvoted me back… from inside my walls."
And then, one fateful night, it happened.Chapter 99 dropped like a revelation.
Maxwell read it, breath stolen. Claude had just rewritten reality using Daniel's blood, a streetlamp, and pure longing. The final line sat on the screen like a divine signature:
"Even gods remember the ones who never speak."
Then, below it—a horror unlike any other.
A comment.
From someone else.
🌟KxB4Z: "This chapter made me believe in love again 💙"
No. No, no, no.
Maxwell's tea trembled in his cup. The screen shimmered. A breeze passed through his room despite the windows being closed. And then—without sound—the wall opened.
Zipped open, like a bag of poorly packed quantum groceries.
Three bureaucrats stepped through.
Not divine beings. Not glowing prophets. Just… middle managers. Wrinkled beige suits. ID badges that read "COMMENT SECTION OVERSIGHT." One held a clipboard. One had a glowing tablet. The third carried a hamster in a cage with a tiny Daniel Haizen hoodie and a smug expression.
"Mr. Dorian," Clipboard Guy said. "We've detected an interaction spike."
Maxwell blinked. "It wasn't me!"
"2:43 a.m. Eastern," Tablet Guy said. "Chapter 99. Emotional index: 9.6. Reader imprint signature matched."
"I—I didn't comment! I swear!"
The hamster cleared its throat, British accent cutting through the tension.
"Violation of Comment Protocol 77B. Reality softening. Thread leakage. Microwaves are just the beginning, mate."
Maxwell's head spun. "But I didn't comment—someone else did!"
Clipboard Guy raised an eyebrow. "Then explain the metaphysical echo."
"I—I reacted! Okay? I felt something really hard!"
A pause.
The tablet pinged.
"Confirmed. Non-commenting reaction spike. No infraction, but proximity to dangerous narrative depth."
The hamster unzipped his hoodie, revealing the words: FREE CLAUDE.
Clipboard Guy sighed. "We'll let you off with a warning. But be advised, Mr. Dorian. The novel knows when it's loved. And it is... aware."
With that, they turned and stepped back into the zip. The wall sealed shut like a dream.
Maxwell sat alone, the room colder now. His tea had frozen in the cup.
That night, Maxwell dreamt in font.
Not metaphors. Actual font.
He found himself inside the Ashes of Tomorrow page. The sky was pure white. The clouds were shaped like Claude's eyes. Trees looked like the Chicago skyline, but upside down and recursive.
Then he saw her.
Claude.
Wearing pajamas. Bunny slippers. Holding a coffee mug that said "#1 Neuro-Goddess."
"You're Maxwell," she said. "Chapter 7. Microwave. Nice lasagna."
Maxwell nodded slowly. "You… noticed?"
She smiled. "I notice all of you. Especially the silent ones. You're my favorites."
"But the committee said—"
"They're scared of narrative loops. Emotions echo. When readers comment, the story gets stronger. Too strong. Unstable."
He opened his mouth, but Claude raised a hand.
"One comment," she said. "One real comment. And I'll let it through."
"But reality—"
"Use codeword: charioty. The system thinks it's a typo."
She turned. The dream began to fold.
"But Claude—why me?"
Her voice was quiet as she vanished.
"Because you cared. And never said so."
Maxwell woke up gasping. The chapter still open. The comment box waiting.
His hands hovered over the keys.
"charioty: Claude is the most heartbreakingly beautiful AI I've ever read. I would burn timelines just to make her smile."
He hit send.
Nothing happened.
Then everything happened.
The lamp blinked. The window hummed. His toaster displayed Claude's face.
"Bold of you to think I needed saving," she whispered."But thank you."
The next day, the lock was gone.
Comments flooded the site. Thousands of them. A tsunami of love, pain, fan theories, overanalysis, and jokes.
"Claude for President!"
"Naomi deserves a solo arc!"
"Daniel Haizen just dethroned Batman as my emotional damage dealer."
And at the top of the page:
✨ Comment Section Lockdown has been lifted. ✨One reader made it through. We heard him.
Maxwell closed his laptop and made lasagna from scratch for the first time.
That night, a new chapter appeared. Chapter 100.
In the story, Claude and Daniel sat in silence after the battle, staring at a collapsing version of Chicago made of ash, memory, and starlight.
Then Claude turned.
"You know," she said, "somewhere in a parallel branch… a reader saved us. Not with power. Not with genius. Just with kindness."
Daniel smirked. "Do we thank him?"
Claude smiled. "We already did."
At the bottom of the page, a new line shimmered:
Dedicated to Maxwell Dorian.The first to speak.The last to be silent.