One being…
…the death of Steve.
Now, that was news to Star, because, quite frankly, he had never written Steve dying. Not once.
He'd written heartache, cliff-hangers, and maybe the occasional "close call," but death? Nope. That was new. Even worse, he had never written Steve accepting anything from his father.
And yet, here he was. In the exact mansion. With the maids (yes, including Vanessa, the one with suspiciously shiny eyes), the security, and the mountain of money that was supposed to remain forever unaccepted.
The memories Star had inherited from inhabiting Steve weren't exactly playing nice either. They were like film reels vomited onto the floor, out of order, upside down, missing key scenes, showing events that he, the author, had never typed in his entire life.
In those scrambled clips, Steve's father, King Zaro, renounced the formal terms of his will and declared, with all the royal drama of a Shakespearean soap opera, that every inch of his estate would go to his only son and true heir, Steve Morris, to "keep the Morris legacy alive." True he made that part.
Originally, Steve had refused. Of course, he did. He was the classic brooding antihero type, allergic to wealth and common sense. But after days of emotional blackmail from his uncle, the farmer who'd raised him, Steve finally gave in and started answering to
"Morris."
Meanwhile, that same uncle, who apparently had nerves of steel and secrets thicker than gravy, kept silent about one tiny, bloody truth: the King had been the one responsible for Steve's mother's death.
Star already knew all this, naturally, not from Steve's memories, but because he wrote it. Or at least, he thought he had.
But then there were things he hadn't written.
In his original script, Zaro had proudly announced that Steve would inherit the will, even the one hidden in the Mystery Box (capital letters required, because drama) ,Correct.
Then, according to his plot, Steve was supposed to kill his father. It was poetic, tragic, very Shakespeare-meets-Vampire-Diaries.
But here? Here the universe decided to throw him a twist: Zaro was killed not by Steve… but by his eldest daughter, Aurelia Morris.
Star blinked. "Wait, what?"
That was not the script.
He had planned the scene, the royal chamber drenched in suspense, blood splattering, the crown rolling dramatically across the marble floor, camera zooming in on Steve's sorrowful glare before the words To Be Continued slashed across the screen.
But now? Aurelia had burned the evidence of Steve's inheritance, murdered the lawyer who had read the will, and, oh, cherry on top, sent two seductive assassin to finish Steve off.
"They killed Steve," Star muttered aloud, his tone somewhere between disbelief and offended author pride. "They actually killed him. Without my permission!"
He frowned. Maybe it wasn't Isabel's doing (Isabel his secretary, which he had told to delete Steve).
But when he says, "deleted a character," it didn't mean kill them, it meant they simply should be vanished from the story. Gone. Like an ex from your contact list.
But this? This was chaos. Pure narrative mutiny.
"Maybe all these changes happened because I transmigrated into Steve," he mumbled. His voice sounded half-convincing.
Truth be told, he had wanted to delete Steve anyway. The guy was getting boring. He'd run out of ideas, hit a creative wall, and was honestly one bad review away from making Steve get hit by a bus for convenience.
He'd even considered ending the whole thing abruptly, maybe with a bold "The End" written in Comic Sans just to annoy people.
But now? That wasn't an option.
This life, this bizarre, blood-sucking, betrayal-soaked royal mess, was now the live continuation of his own unfinished series. Every breath he took was canon.
And somewhere, deep down, Star wondered if someone out there was watching. Maybe there was still an audience, sipping coffee, munching popcorn, enjoying his suffering like it was a pay-per-view comedy.
"What if they're still watching?" he thought, staring at the ceiling. "If I trip and fall in the shower, are they gonna comment 'LOL RIP STEVE XD'?"
What really bothered him, though, wasn't existential dread. It was sunlight. Literal sunlight. He couldn't move properly during the day anymore. Every time he stepped outside, it felt like God himself was roasting him for plot crimes.
"First things first," he sighed. "I need a daylight ring."
After that… well, maybe he'd move on to seducing the Red Queen.
Not to brag, but if charisma had a leaderboard, Star would've been at least top fifty. He'd written enough romantic subplots to consider himself an expert in seduction, theoretically. He just hoped Steve's body wouldn't betray him at the crucial moment.
"Only one way to find out," he whispered, smirking at his reflection.
Actually, he now understood his mission. All his claims to his father's will had been torched by that witch, Aurelia Morris.
"Ugh, that evil lady!" he barked, startling a poor sparrow outside his window. The bird probably had no idea it had just witnessed royal-level resentment.
Well, he'd have to join the contest for the will.
The rules had shifted since their father's murder.
A date had been fixed. The late king's adviser, Eliot Grudge, a man whose name sounded exactly like the type of man you should not trust, would oversee the competition. Whoever amassed the most wealth would receive the first will.
That first will contained the father's entire fortune. And suddenly, Star remembered the little "mission prompt" the system had shown him earlier:
Mission: Double your father's wealth.
"Brilliant," he muttered, drumming his fingers against the armrest. "I'm basically in a royal edition of Shark Tank."
He also remembered another crucial point: his half-sisters were hunting him. Literally.
"Steve, you idiot," he sighed. "You let your guard down."
Then, narrowing his eyes, he thought, 'Actually, I wrote you to be pathetic, but not this dumb.'
How on earth did Steve not notice his sisters burning his inheritance papers, hiring assassins, and sending a seductive poisoner to finish him off?
"Blind and stupid. My greatest creation," Star muttered.
Still, maybe it was for the best. Steve was dead, officially. That gave him an advantage.
"Let them think I'm gone," he whispered, grinning. "That way, hehe, I'll carry out my plan smoothly. Unexpectedly. And fabulously."
After the first will's winner would be announced, the second and true treasure's hint would be revealed, the Will in the Mystery Box.
He had no choice but to play along now. Oddly enough, it didn't bother him. Maybe because he was technically already dead, or maybe because he refused to picture the helicopter crash that had shredded his body, maybe like confetti.
Or maybe… he was simply numb. Being inside his own creation came with strange privileges, like the ability to laugh at tragedy because you wrote it.
He was still lost in that absurd thought when a knock came at the door, polite but firm, like someone politely tapping before demanding rent money.
"Come in," he said, using Steve's deep, charming voice.
The door opened. A man stepped in, average in build but dressed so sharply he could've sliced air. His dark suit hugged his frame like it feared wrinkles. His skin gleamed rich mahogany, his head clean-shaven, his face smooth as carved wood.
His voice, however, didn't match his intimidating frame, it was oddly soft and musical, like a flute being played by a bodyguard.
"You called me, Young Master?" he said.
Star blinked. Ah, right. He'd forgotten this guy existed. Skull; Steve's personal valet-slash-shadow-slash-human refrigerator. The man looked like he could crush boulders yet spoke like a polite jazz musician.
"Oh, right. Skull," Star said, composing himself. "My wardrobe. Now."
Skull nodded without a word. Then, pausing mid-turn, he added in that annoyingly responsible tone, "Young Master, remember you are to give Mr. Leon a call tonight."
Star blinked again. "Leon?"
Ah, yes. Steve's best friend. He'd wanted to meet Leon to explain about the mansion and the sudden small-big fortune that had fallen into his lap.
"Oh, yeah…" he muttered, scanning the room. "Where the hell's my phone?"
Then it hit him. He'd dropped it before passing out with those two women last night. And judging by Skull's movements, one of them was still...
Yep. Skull was currently dragging her corpse out of the wardrobe like a janitor cleaning up bad decisions.
Star sighed. "Of course."
Well, why stress? He could just call the phone.
"Siri," he said, grinning slyly.
"Mmm-hmm?" came the crisp, polite voice from somewhere under the bed.
"Where the hell did you go?" Star asked, as if the phone might answer, 'Went out for a walk, why?'
"I am at 345 Dalton Lane, East Sovereign District, City of Nethros," Siri replied in her prim British accent.
Star rolled his eyes. "Smartass."
He found it wedged between the bedframe and mattress. As he reached down, his fingers brushed something small and round.
He pulled both the phone and the mystery object out, a tiny glass bottle, barely big enough to hold a tear. Its red rubber seal gleamed faintly in the light.
Curious, he sniffed it. The scent was sweet but metallic, like perfume made by a chemist with bad intentions.
Before he could think much, he turned to ask Skull if he recognized it, but froze.
Skull was dragging out the pale, lifeless woman from earlier. Her skin was ghost-white, her veins bulging an ugly green like ivy drawn by a deranged artist. Foam clung to her mouth. Her eyes were open, wide, glassy, accusing. Even in death, her face seemed to hiss, "Gotcha."
The smell hit next, sharp, medicinal, poisonous.
Star looked at the bottle again and groaned.
"Oh, hell no," he muttered. "This lady-whore came planned."
He held the little vial up like evidence in a courtroom. "Poisoned perfume anti-dote. That's… that's actually genius. Evil, but genius."
Then he dropped his voice to a low mutter.
"No way in hell."
He Paused.
Then bellowed louder...
"HELL no!"
Skull blinked, unbothered, and continued mopping the crime scene.
Star just sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"Welcome to your own novel, Star. Population: idiocy and corpses."