It was a normal day for everyone else — full of open doors and endless possibilities. But in his rented apartment, a man sat alone, surrounded by cold food and the glow of a screen, finishing the final chapter of a story he'd written.
"I did it again," he murmured.
He stared at the words on the screen — the novel he'd built, brick by brick, over months.
He was known as a mediocre writer — flat in style, predictable in structure. But sometimes people praised his work for its intricate worldbuilding, the systems woven into the fabric of his stories that made them feel alive.
Still, the feedback was rarely kind. Critics called his stories boring. So he began using shortcuts — overpowered main character with insane abilities that made them impervious , heroines who loves the hero for trivial reasons ,Plot twist that were predicable and boring. He lothed what he was created but it was his passion to become a novelist that can make stories that readers can't wait for them but.
His stories had no soul. Just polished templates.
No matter how packed the world and it lore is, it meant nothing if the characters inside felt hollow.
Returning to him looking at the reviews for a brief moment
He just laughed stale in disappointment
After all, what could he do?
she he just give up and stay a medicore novelist
Lost in thought, he glanced again at his work — the title glaring back at him: *The Academy of Peerless Talent*.
"Even the name's generic," he muttered.
hating it.
hating himself for writing another forgettable medicore story.
He sighed and let his mind drift —again still slumped at his desk — when suddenly, the lights went out.
"Huh…"
Darkness swallowed the room.
Only faint glimmers from outside seeped through the window,he remembered that the landlord told him he had fixed the power issues
"I thought that damn landlord fixed the power issue."
He reached for his phone to call him — then paused.
"Why even bother?" with a sigh he gave up
He rested his forehead against the desk.
In the quiet dark, for the first time in weeks, his mind stilled.
And for a moment — just a moment — he slept.
—
Sometime later, he woke.
His head felt wired — buzzing, heavy, like static trapped behind his eyes. He opened them slowly.
Then wider.
He wasn't at the desk.
He was lying on a bed.
Soft. Clean. Unfamiliar.
The room around him — white walls, no clutter, no takeout boxes, no half-empty mugs — didn't belong to him.
It looked *fancy*. Too fancy. Ornate moldings, silk curtains, a chandelier barely visible in the dim light.
He knew this place — somewhere deep — but his mind shoved it away. Too soon.
A clock on the wall read 3:47 AM. But the light filtering through the curtains suggested dawn — or something close to it. Hours had passed. Maybe more.
His heart began to hammer.
His breath came shallow, quick.
But his face remained still. Blank.
A mask over the storm.
He looked down.
His clothes weren't his.
Not even close.
Tailored. Expensive. The kind of fabric that cost more than his rent. Noble expensive. The kind he'd only seen in stories — *his* stories.
He touched his elbow. Smooth. Cold. Real too real
He looked around
He wasn't chained.
No ropes. No gags. No signs of struggle.
Not kidnapped.
Just… placed.
And that, somehow, was more confusing
" What is happening " the sense of the unknown was drowning him
Then he saw it — a counter, sleek and polished, with a mirror above it.
He moved.
Not rushed. Not panicked.
Just *moved*. Slowly
He saw it
His reflection stared back.
Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Brown eyes — tired, haunted, almost handsome, almost perfectly forgettable.
Like a character sketched in haste and abandoned from a lazy novel that was the first thing he thought seeing it for some reason maybe his mind still didn't register. Then it hit him hard
He leaned closer.
Closer.
"No."
The word came out small. Fragile.
"No… this isn't…"
His hands gripped the counter. Knuckles white.
"This can't be real."
He pressed his forehead against the glass.
The reflection did the same.
Not a trick. Not a dream.
*Real.*
He wasn't just in a strange room.
*He was in a stranger's skin.*
And the worst part?
He *recognized* the face.
It was Theo Blackthorn.
The side villain.
Written off — not even a real antagonist, just an *annoyance*.
A stepping stone for the hero to crush.
A name dropped in passing so someone stronger could shine.
A character he'd spent five minutes at most when making up his character because he was just a simple tool so the plot can continue
Meant to lose.
Meant to die.
Meant to be erased.
And now…
*He was him.*