Rain tapped against the apartment window like the ticking of a relentless metronome. Outside, the world blurred in streaks of gray, cars and pedestrians dissolving into the wet night. Inside, a single desk lamp cast a pale circle of light over a cluttered desk. Cans of energy drinks, half-eaten instant noodles, and scattered manuscript notes framed the laptop screen—where Lance Moren was about to commit literary murder.
His fingers hovered above the keys. Bloodshot eyes stared down the final paragraph of Chapter 74. The climax.
He cracked his knuckles.
"And with that last breath, Reese Halden—the arrogant bastard who killed Kai's only companion—choked on his own screams. Justice, Kai whispered, was always patient."
Click.
He hit save, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.
The story was his therapy. No, it was more than that—it was where all his bitterness went. Life had been chewing Lance up slowly: an office job he hated, a boss who delighted in belittling him, parents who called once every three months to remind him he was wasting his degree. Writing Vengeance Arc: Kai's Requiem was the only place he felt in control.
Kai, his main character, was everything Lance wasn't. Calm, calculating, quietly intense. A man who suffered and did something about it. And Reese Halden? Reese was the symbolic embodiment of every smug face Lance had ever wanted to punch. The kind of person who laughed while kicking someone already on the ground. And most unforgivable of all, in the story, he'd killed Kai's cat—Snow.
Based on Lance's real cat.
Snow had been the only companion in this dim apartment until she got sick and died on a cold Wednesday afternoon. Writing her into the novel, and letting Kai get revenge for her, was cathartic.
He leaned forward and scrolled up, rereading the final scene where Kai watched Reese gasp for air after being lured into a trap of his own making. The irony. The satisfaction. The control.
Lance smiled weakly.
"Serves you right," he whispered to the screen.
He closed the laptop. Stretched his arms. His body ached in all the places people weren't supposed to ache at twenty-five. He shuffled to his unmade bed and collapsed face-first into the pillow.
"Tomorrow," he mumbled into the cotton. "I'll start Chapter 75. Maybe a flashback. Or maybe Kai should kill someone else..."
Sleep claimed him before he could finish the thought.
---
He woke to silence.
Not the familiar buzz of the neighbor's TV, or the sound of the leaky faucet in the kitchen. Just… silence.
And light. Blinding light.
Lance winced and sat up, his body sluggish. He rubbed his eyes—and froze.
This wasn't his bed.
The sheets were crisp, expensive. The room around him was foreign. Clean. Pristine. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the morning sun. Bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive window stretched across the opposite side, showing a quiet, suburban neighborhood that looked far too perfect.
He turned in bed.
A mirror on the wall caught his attention.
He saw himself.
And it wasn't him.
Lance stumbled out of bed, bare feet slapping against polished wooden floors. He stared into the mirror.
The man in the reflection wasn't the lanky, dark-haired writer he knew. No—this guy was taller, broader, with sharp blue eyes and messy golden-blond hair that looked like it never obeyed a comb. His jawline was sharp enough to cut paper. Even in a simple shirt and pajama pants, he looked like someone who thought he owned every room he walked into.
Lance knew this face.
It was Reese Halden.
He staggered back from the mirror, heart pounding.
"No. No no no no—"
He grabbed a nearby book, flipped to the title page.
"Private Memoirs of Reese Halden – Volume II."
It felt like a brick in his stomach.
This couldn't be real.
He moved to the window. Outside, people walked dogs, watered lawns. Children played on scooters. But there was something... artificial about it all. Like it was scripted. A world built on words.
His words.
"This is insane," he whispered.
Then the door opened.
A butler stepped inside—tall, aging, wearing a perfectly pressed suit. His face was familiar too. A minor background character Lance had mentioned once in passing. Sebastian, the loyal servant of Reese's household.
"Young master Halden," Sebastian said with a bow, "breakfast is ready. Your father wishes to speak with you in the dining hall."
Lance didn't reply. Couldn't.
His thoughts were a cyclone of panic and disbelief. Why? How? What kind of dream was this?
And then, a deeper fear curled in his gut.
If he was Reese… where was Kai?
As if summoned by the thought, a notification bell rang out from a small tablet resting on the desk. Lance moved toward it, hands trembling.
It was a news alert from "HaldenNet," the family's private media network. He tapped the headline.
"Student Genius Kai Aven Returns to Town. Top of his class in psychology, science prodigy, and winner of the national chess circuit. Scheduled to re-enter Halden High today."
Lance's throat went dry.
No. Not today. Please not the beginning.
This was Chapter 1 of the story.
The moment where Kai returned home—cold, quiet, and burning with rage beneath his smile. The moment he began playing the long game. Manipulating, observing, waiting for the perfect time to destroy Reese's life.
Lance had written it himself.
Which meant—
He was now the villain.
The smug bastard.
The target of revenge.
The one fated to die by the protagonist's hand.
He sank into the leather armchair near the bed, gripping the tablet with whitening knuckles.
"What the hell kind of punishment is this?" he muttered.
And in the corner of the mirror's reflection, he thought he saw it—
A shadow. Flickering. Watching.
It vanished when he turned to look.