[Location: Chicago, Illinois – 42nd Floor Office][Time: 10:45 PM – The Old Life]
The city lights outside looked like cold, distant stars. Inside, the only light came from the dual monitors humming on the desk.
Frank Miller rubbed his chest. It felt tight, like he'd swallowed a golf ball. He was forty-five years old, a Senior Analyst for a logistics firm that didn't know his birthday. He had a decent 401k, a leased Audi, and an ex-wife who took the house.
He was successful on paper, but in reality, he was nothing. He was a cog. A yes-man. He spent his life making sure the VP, a guy named Brad who played golf on Tuesdays, got his bonuses.
"Just finish the report, Frank," he muttered to himself, typing a VLOOKUP formula he could do in his sleep. "Then you can go home to... well, Netflix."
The tightness in his chest snapped. It wasn't a slow pain; it was an explosion.
His coffee mug tipped over, brown liquid splashing onto the expensive reports. Frank gasped, clutching his tie. He tried to stand, to call for help, but the office was empty. The cleaning crew had left an hour ago.
He fell to the carpet, his cheek pressed against the rough industrial fabric.
This is it? The thought was clearer than the pain. I spent forty-five years being polite. I followed the rules. I waited my turn.
His vision tunneled.
I never took what I wanted. I just waited for people to give it to me.
As the darkness swallowed him, Frank Miller made a promise to a god he wasn't sure he believed in.
If I go again... I'm not waiting in line. I'm kicking down the door.
[Location: Seattle, Washington – Seattle Grace Hospital][Time: 3:02 AM – The Rebirth]
Light. Blinding, searing light. And noise.
I tried to scream, but it came out as a wet, pathetic wail. I felt giant hands grabbing me, wiping me down.
"It's a boy, Mrs. Cross! A healthy baby boy."
The confusion lasted for weeks. The humiliation lasted for months. Being an adult mind trapped in an infant's body is a special kind of torture. But as the fog of infancy lifted, I realized the situation.
I was Adrian Cross. I was in Seattle. It was the 90s.
And I had a second chance.
[Location: The Cross Residence – Living Room][Time: 2:00 PM – Age 5]
"Look at him," my mother, Sarah, whispered to her friend on the couch. "He's so... focused."
I was sitting on the floor with a 500-piece puzzle. It was a map of the United States. Most five-year-olds were eating the pieces or shoving them up their noses. I was sorting them by edge pieces first, then color gradients.
I wasn't a genius. I just had the patience of a middle-aged man.
I snapped the final piece of Florida into place. Done.
I stood up, walked over to my mom, and flashed a bright, toothy grin. "Finished, Mommy."
"Oh my god," her friend gasped. "Sarah, you need to get him tested. He's a prodigy."
I wasn't a prodigy. I was just efficient. I knew that in this world, results mattered. If I was the "smart kid," I got better toys. I got later bedtimes. I got respect.
I walked to the kitchen to get a juice box, my mind already calculating. Kindergarten starts next week. I need to identify the teacher's pet and the bully immediately. Neutralize the bully, befriend the pet. Secure the top spot.
I stabbed the straw into the juice box.
This life is going to be easy.
[Location: Ridgeway Elementary – Classroom 4B][Time: 10:15 AM – Age 10]
"Alright class," Mrs. Gable clapped her hands. "Who can tell me the capital of Vermont?"
Twenty hands shot up. Mine stayed down. I was leaning back in my chair, twirling a pencil.
"Adrian?" she asked, looking right at me. She always looked at me.
"Montpelier," I said effortlessly, flashing a charming smile.
"Correct."
At age ten, I had realized that being smart wasn't enough. You had to be liked. In my old life, I was the guy who sat in the corner and did the work. In this life, I was the guy who organized the kickball teams at recess.
I looked around the room. I had helped Jason with his math homework, so he owed me. I gave my fruit roll-up to Emily, so she had a crush on me. I was the center of the orbit.
I looked down at my report card on the desk. Straight A's. Comments: A joy to have in class. A natural leader.
"Natural," I scoffed internally. This took work. I spent every night reading ahead in the textbooks so I could breeze through class. I practiced my jokes in the mirror.
I was building a resume for a life of absolute power. CEO by 30. Senator by 40. President by 50. Why not? I had the time.
[Location: Ridgeway High School – Cafeteria][Time: 12:30 PM – Age 16]
High school was the major leagues of social engineering.
I sat at the "good" table. To my right was the quarterback. To my left was the head of the debate team.
"Adrian, you coming to the bonfire Friday?" a girl named Jessica asked. She was pretty—brown hair, blue eyes. She leaned in a little too close.
I took a bite of my apple, chewing slowly. "Depends, Jess. You going to be there?"
She blushed. "Yeah."
"Then I'm there," I said, giving her a wink.
The table laughed. The vibe was good. I was 16 years old, 6-foot-1, and I had perfect control over my life. I was top of the class, starting on the varsity track team, and I had a date for Homecoming whenever I wanted one.
I felt... powerful. Not in a supernatural way, just in a human way. I had conquered the hierarchy.
"Hey, did you hear about the transfer student?" the quarterback asked.
"Who cares?" I shrugged. "They'll fall in line."
I checked my watch. I had a meeting with the guidance counselor in ten minutes to finalize my Ivy League applications. Harvard, Yale, Princeton. They were all within reach.
Life was perfect. I was winning.
[Location: The Cross Residence – Dining Room][Time: 7:45 PM – Age 16 (Present Day)]
The crash happened at dinner.
My dad, Robert, cleared his throat. He poured himself a second glass of wine, which was my first clue. Dad was a one-glass guy.
"Adrian," he started. "Your mother and I need to talk to you."
I put my fork down. "What's up? Is it Grandma?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "It's work. The firm offered me a promotion. A big one. Regional Project Manager."
"That's huge, Dad!" I grinned. "We celebrating?"
"It comes with a relocation package," my mom said, her voice tight. "We have to move. Immediately. Before the school year starts."
I froze.
Moving? Now? Junior year?
"Dad," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I'm the Junior Class President. I'm Captain of the Track team. If I move now, I lose my momentum for the college apps. Can't you commute?"
"It's across the country, son," Dad said apologetically. "But the town... it's perfect for us. It's got history. It's safe. It's quiet."
I felt a cold prickle on the back of my neck. I didn't know why, but my survival instinct—the one I honed in the corporate world—started screaming.
"Where?" I asked.
"It's a small town in Virginia," Dad said, pulling a brochure out of his pocket and sliding it across the table.
I looked down at the glossy paper.
It showed a clock tower. A quaint town square. A grill called The Mystic Grill.
And the words: WELCOME TO MYSTIC FALLS.
The world stopped.
The sound of the refrigerator humming disappeared. The smell of lasagna vanished.
My vision tunneled, just like it had when I died in that office in Chicago.
Mystic Falls.
I knew that name. I watched the show. My ex-wife loved it. I used to watch it over her shoulder while I worked on spreadsheets.
Vampires. Doppelgangers. Witches who snap your neck with a look. Werewolves who break every bone in their body once a month.
"Adrian?" my mom asked. "You look pale."
I stared at the brochure.
My perfect life? Gone. My Ivy League plans? Irrelevant. My popularity? Meaningless.
I wasn't the main character anymore. I was an NPC. I was the guy who gets eaten in Episode 3 to prove the villain is dangerous.
I'm going to Mystic Falls.
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling, expecting me to be upset about leaving my friends. He had no idea he was driving us into a slaughterhouse.
I could feel the panic rising, hot and suffocating. But then, I remembered Frank Miller. I remembered dying on the floor, weak and powerless.
No.
I clenched my fist under the table until my nails dug into my palm.
I wasn't Frank Miller anymore. I was Adrian Cross. I had spent sixteen years perfecting the art of winning.
If I was going to a town of monsters, I wasn't going to be the victim. I was going to be the nightmare.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I looked at the brochure again.
Power, I thought. Real power. Immortality. Strength.
"Virginia," I said, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "Okay."
I looked at my parents.
"When do we leave?"
"Two weeks," Dad said.
I nodded slowly.
Two weeks to figure out how to survive the Originals.
"May I be excused?" I asked politely. "I... I need to go pack."
"Of course, honey."
I walked out of the dining room calmly. I walked up the stairs calmly.
I entered my room, closed the door, and locked it.
Then I went to my computer and opened a blank document. My hands were shaking, but my mind was razor sharp.
I typed three words at the top of the page:
THE SURVIVAL GUIDE
Then, I began to type everything I could remember.
1. Vervain. It burns them. It stops compulsion. Find it. 2. The Gilberts. Elena is the center. Jeremy has the ring. 3. The Salvatores. Damon is unstable. Stefan is a ripper on a leash. 4. The Goal: DO NOT DIE.
I stared at the screen.
"Game on," I whispered.