Awnn...
I opened my eyes and felt slightly confused.
"Weren't I dead?" I thought. I tried to move, but my body felt weak. I looked at my hands—and what I saw were the hands of an infant.
Did I get reincarnated?
MC POV:
Hello. I am...... "Sorry." I was Rechal in my previous life. I wasn't anyone significant or a genius, and I wasn't especially kind or cruel. The only notable thing I did was write an unfinished novel.
Now you're going to ask why it's unfinished. That's because I accidentally made the protagonist far more evil than the final boss—manipulative, shameless, killing people for profit while pretending to be righteous and kind in public.
"Hnnn..." truly a devious person.
Now you'll ask why I made this kind of protagonist if I didn't like him. Back then, characters like that were trending, and I followed the trend. I soon regretted it. I had forgotten why I started reading and writing novels in the first place: to escape reality. Yet I'd made the people in my book unnervingly close to real life. I'm not overly kind, but that doesn't mean I enjoyed reading about crimes and horrors every day on the news.
Not everyone felt the same. Some readers released their frustrations by consuming dark fiction, and that helped my novel become popular.
Now—how did I die? Well, it wasn't a terrible death, I guess. I was an orphan and left home at fifteen. I did part-time work while finishing high school. At twenty-one I completed a bachelor's in computer science and started a job at a reputable IT firm.
Days went well: a steady job and writing novels as a hobby. But one night, on my way home from work, I saw a middle-aged man walking with a little girl—maybe eight years old. They looked related at first, but after all those dark novels and news stories, I felt anxious. My heart beat fast. I decided to follow them quietly.
To my horror, the man led the girl into an empty building and closed the door. My blood boiled, my heartbeat racing like a bullet train. I ran to the door and pressed my ear to listen. The girl's voice trembled:
"U-uncle, why are we here? Didn't you say we were going home?"
The man replied with a sick laugh. "Don't worry, my dear. Your father was my brother and your mother my crush. He married her and got richer by betraying me; I kept quiet. Now I'm richer than him. He stole my chance—now I'll taste you." He chuckled.
"Uncle...what are you saying? I'll tell mama," the girl sobbed.
I couldn't contain myself. Before making assumptions, I called the police and barged in.
"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?" I said, trying to sound intimidating.
"Wh...who are...you?" the man stammered, startled.
"Who I am doesn't matter. You're going to end up in prison," I said, stalling for time until the police arrived.
"What are you talking about? Do you have any evidence?" he snapped. I wasn't about to show my hand. A writer of dark fiction, a product of this grim society—I had already started recording on my phone when I grew suspicious. The footage showed him leading the girl into the empty building and his threatening words were all on tape.
"That doesn't matter. Admit your crime," I said, not foolish enough to hand evidence to a criminal.
"Oh, come on. What do you want? I have a lot of money. Go home and enjoy your life; let me enjoy mine," he said, staring at the trembling girl in the corner. My heart ached.
"Sorry, I'm not as degenerate as you," I replied, trying to reassure the girl.
"Then sorry, man—you have to die here." He pulled a gun.
"Do you think you can kill a boy and rape a girl and walk away?" Panic surged in me, but I kept my face calm. 'Why is the police always late at crucial moments?' I thought.
He was rich, arrogant, and convinced he could get away with anything. Before he could fire, I threw my suitcase at him to distract him. It hit his face and he fell. I tried to snatch the gun, but he clutched it tightly. I grabbed the girl's hand.
"Run!" I urged. I had seen this in movies and real life—the mind freezes in panic, so I pulled her along.
He recovered fast and started shooting. A bullet hit my arm; I stumbled and fell. For once, the police finally arrived.
"You called the cops? You ruined my life—die!" he yelled. Seeing the police, his face went pale and then crimson with rage. He shot me in the chest. The world dimmed. I knew I was dying, but at least the girl was safe. I had told the police where my phone was before I ran in; the evidence was secure. I saw despair on his face. Before everything went dark, I gave him the middle finger.
Then everything went black.
POV end.
Now I see a dark night, stars, three moons in the sky, and a huge mansion gate. The environment—the sky, the three moons—wasn't this the setting of my unfinished novel, The Final Boss?
I closed my eyes and thought, Isn't this the world from THE FINAL BOSS? I screamed inside my head.