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 takeout and the harsh glow of a monitor, finishing the final chapter of a story he'd written.
"I did it again," he murmured.
He stared at the screen, at the novel he'd built brick by brick over months. He was known as a mediocre writer: flat in style, predictable in structure. Occasionally, readers praised his intricate worldbuilding, the systems woven into his stories that made them feel alive. But the praise was rare. Critics called his work boring. So he turned to shortcuts: overpowered protagonists with impossible abilities, heroines who fell in love for trivial reasons, plot twists that were dull and predictable. He loathed what he'd created, yet it was his only passion—to become a novelist whose stories readers couldn't wait to devour.
But his stories had no soul. Just polished templates. No matter how rich the world or its lore, it meant nothing if the characters inside felt hollow.
Back at his desk, he glanced at the reviews one last time, then laughed. A stale, disappointed sound that died in the quiet room.
What could he do? Give up and remain a mediocre novelist forever?
Lost in thought, his eyes drifted to his work. The title glared back at him: *The Academy of Peerless Talent*.
"Even the name's generic," he muttered.
He hated it. Hated himself for writing another forgettable, mediocre story.
He sighed, letting his mind drift as he slumped in his chair. Suddenly, the lights flickered and died.
"Huh?"
Darkness swallowed the room. Only faint glimmers from the streetlights outside seeped through the blinds. He remembered the landlord claiming he'd 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 heavy sigh, he let his hand drop.
He rested his forehead against the cool wood of 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 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 from somewhere deep in his memory, but his mind shoved the thought away. Too soon.
A clock on the wall read 3:47 AM. Yet 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.
The clothes weren't his. Not even close. Tailored and expensive, they fit him with a precision that felt unnatural. The deep crimson of the jacket and the gold embroidery on the cuffs were unmistakable—the kind of detail he'd only ever seen in movies.
He touched his elbow. The skin was smooth. Cold.
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 unknown was drowning him.
Then he saw it—a sleek, polished vanity with a mirror above it.
He moved. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just *moved*. Slowly.
His reflection stared back.
Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Brown eyes—tired, haunted, almost handsome. Like a character written in haste and abandoned. That was his first thought, for some reason, as his mind struggled to register what it was seeing. 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 on, max, because he was just a tool, a plot device to keep the story moving.
Meant to lose.
Meant to die.
Meant to be erased.
And now…
*He was him.*