You run.
"Hey! Researcher-person! Come back so I can check you! Please?"
By now you know just how fictional you are. That's all you've been. Running down the corridor, however, makes you realize there's more here. The sense of wading through fabric is the tip of reaching something deep, underlying to your existence. It isn't something you directly know. It's something you can feel.
You throw yourself against the fabric. Invisible, it bends to your presence, cushioning you and leaving you suspended in mid-air. You claw at it and try to tug at any loose threads there may be. You tug. The fabric's structure reveals itself to you in a flash of blue, your mind rationalizing the abstractness of it all into an expanse of strings forming a complex lattice. White noise lunges over your vision. An anomalocaris bombs the lattice—
The same conversation. You try to ask the anomalocaris what it's doing to the story, but your mind strays back to variants on what you've said every single time before. The pain shoots back in a nanosecond migraine. You remember running with a child under the sun's warmth, slowing yourself down so they can get the joy of winning. Playing in the park's grassy fields. Reminiscing on the heat is nothing more than a pale simulation of what the sunlight felt like. It puts into comparison how cold the narrative is, a fact that you only begin to notice now. Heat must've been unimportant to 3939's containment if it wasn't written in.
The strange part is that you've never had a family. You've never wanted one. Right?