Whoosh… whoosh…The wind howled through the empty streets, tossing my black hair into the air.I stepped out of the convenience store, phone in one hand, a can of something fizzy in the other, and headed straight for the subway.
There was an open bench on the platform. I sat down, unlocked my phone, and picked up where I'd left off.The novel's title glowed on the screen: "Nightingale."
It was about a noble baron whose peaceful life shattered in one night. His family—mother, father, sister—lay in pools of blood. And in the middle of it all stood a creature.A faceless monster. Only ears, long arms, long legs, and a round, featureless head.The protagonist froze in horror but managed to grab the sword hanging above the fireplace. He turned—thud!—a strike hit his ribs.Thrown back, he coughed up blood, stood up again, and charged forward.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Clang!His sword clashed again and again, but the creature's hide was like steel.
"Station: Nightingale. Next station—Nightingale."
The black-haired man—me—looked up, pocketed the phone, and stepped onto the train.Standing by the doors, I resumed reading.
The young baron swung wildly, desperate. It didn't matter—the monster didn't even flinch.Another strike came—whoosh!—a claw pierced straight through his chest. Blood soaked his shirt. He was dying. Cold crept up his limbs.Then—Ding!A window popped up.
[System]: Quest — Defeat the Monster!
"Huh?" flashed through his mind. He clenched his trembling hands around the sword's grip, raised the blade, and drove it through the monster's head.
The End.
I sighed, leaned back, and scrolled down. "God, this novel sucks," I muttered under my breath."Yeah, I know the guy reincarnates later or something, but still—what a piece of trash. The author must be brain-dead."
Shoving the phone into my pocket, I closed my eyes. The rumble of the train, the flickering lights, the faint announcement—
"Station: Nightingale."
When consciousness returned, it was slow and heavy—like wading through thick fog.The hum of the train was gone.So were the lights.Instead, there was a sky—murky gray, low and suffocating.
I was lying on my back on rough, dusty ground. The smell of smoke, decay, and something sickly-sweet filled the air. I coughed, the sound rasping through my dry throat.
"Where… am I?"My voice sounded foreign. Wrong.
I pushed myself up on my elbows—and froze.Ruins surrounded me. Collapsed buildings stared back with hollow windows.Burned-out cars lay like broken toys, their metal frames twisted and torn.Fires flickered in the distance, painting jagged shadows across shattered concrete.
The city was dead.And I was completely alone.
A pounding started behind my eyes—faint at first, then sharper, until it felt like my skull was splitting apart. I groaned and clutched my head.
Then… images. A flood of them.Not mine.
A child's scream.Brakes screeching.The smell of grandma's pies.Then darkness.
Drip. Drip.
I wiped my nose. Blood. Warm, red, fresh.It felt like my brain was tearing itself in half, trying to hold two sets of memories—two lives.
"Get it together… focus…" I hissed through my teeth, forcing my breathing to steady. "Breathe… just breathe."
Fuuuuh…The slow exhale helped. A little. I needed shelter.
I spotted a crumbling store nearby. The sign above the door—'World of Groceries'—hung from a single rusty hinge, creaking in the wind. Fitting.
I crawled inside and slumped behind the counter. Cool air and silence dulled the pounding in my head.
"Damn it… my head…" I muttered, eyes closed. "Who even am I now? The guy from the subway… or the one whose memories are clawing through my skull?"
THUD.
A heavy sound outside snapped me back to reality. My pulse spiked.Carefully, I peeked over the counter.
Something stood exactly where I had been lying a minute ago.Tall. Thin. Its arms and legs too long, ending in clawed hands.Its head—round and smooth. No eyes. No mouth. No nose.Only two pale ear-like shapes on the sides.
A faceless bastard.Just like my ex.
The thought came out of nowhere, absurd, but it helped me keep from screaming.
I crouched down, holding my breath. Adrenaline cut through the fog in my mind.No eyes. It can't see. It hunts by sound. Hearing—that's how it finds prey.
I slowly peeked again. The more I looked, the colder my stomach felt. The fur, the claws, the shape—I knew this thing.I'd written it.
It was a Silent Gremlin, a low-level monster from chapter three of "Nightingale."A cheap, throwaway creature I'd once mocked as "a boring cliché villain just to move the plot."
The irony hit me like a hammer.I hadn't just fallen into another world—I had fallen into my own story.The worst one I'd ever read.And the only reason I might survive…was because I remembered every word of it.