James Harlan blinked awake in the dim glow of his Brooklyn studio apartment, the kind of place where the walls were paper-thin and the air smelled faintly of yesterday's takeout.
At 21, he was the epitome of post-college limbo: a barista by day, a binge-watcher by night, scrolling through endless fan theories on Reddit about The Vampire Diaries universe.
New York had chewed him up and spat him out—rent was a vampire sucking his soul dry, and his dreams of screenwriting felt as distant as the Hollywood sign.
He rubbed his eyes, expecting the usual alarm blare from his phone, but instead, a holographic shimmer hung in the air like a glitch in the matrix.
It wasn't a dream. A translucent screen floated six inches from his face, crisp blue text pulsing against a void-black background. No bezels, no wires—just there, like it had materialized from the ether.
DO YOU WISH TO TELEPORT TO LEGACIES (TVD) WORLD?
James bolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs. "What the—?" He waved a hand through it; his fingers passed clean through, but the text didn't waver.
Legacies. The spin-off. The Salvatore School, witches, werewolves, vampires—Hope Mikaelson's angsty teen drama. He'd marathoned it last weekend, cursing the plot holes over cold coffee.
This had to be a prank. Some augmented reality app he'd downloaded in a haze? Or worse, a stroke. He pinched his arm—ow. Real.
The screen waited, patient as a predator. Two buttons glowed beneath the query: YES and NO. His mind raced. Back out, call it a hallucination, and go flip lattes for minimum wage?
Or... say yes, and wake up in Mystic Falls, rubbing elbows with immortals? It was insane. Utterly, beautifully insane. The kind of thing that happened to protagonists, not to guys like him who alphabetized their comic books and avoided eye contact on the subway.
"Screw it," he muttered, voice cracking like a teenager's. His finger hovered, then jabbed the air where YES shimmered. The screen pulsed once, then dissolved into a vortex of light—blinding, roaring, like being sucked through a cosmic drainpipe. His stomach flipped, the world smeared into streaks of color, and for a split second, he regretted everything.
Then, silence.
James hit the ground hard, knees jarring against damp grass. He gasped, tasting pine and earth, the air thick with the scent of impending rain.
No Brooklyn smog, no distant sirens—just birdsong and the rustle of leaves. He was in a forest, sunlight dappling through ancient oaks, a gravel path snaking toward what looked like a sprawling Victorian mansion in the distance.
Salvatore School, he realized with a lurch. The signpost at the path's edge confirmed it: Salvatore Boarding School for the Young & Gifted. Gargoyles leered from the rooftops, ivy clung like veins, and beyond the wrought-iron gates, he could hear laughter—kids, maybe, but with an edge, like they knew secrets that could unravel the world.
Two days before canon. The thought hit him like a freight train. In the show, that's when the first whispers of Malivore start bubbling up, when Hope's still reeling from her parents' shadows, and the school's a powder keg of hormonal supernaturals.
No one knew him here. He wasn't in the script. Which meant... what? Plot armor? Or cannon fodder?
He patted himself down. Jeans, faded TVD tee (irony noted), sneakers caked in New York grime. No backpack, no phone—nothing but his wallet, a crumpled twenty peeking out.
At least he wouldn't starve immediately. His hands shook as he stood, brushing dirt from his elbows. "Okay, James. Think. You're in a TV show. Act normal. Blend in."
The road out wound through misty woods, eventually spilling onto a two-lane highway flanked by mom-and-pop diners and antique shops. Mystic Falls, Virginia. Population: small, secrets: endless.
The first order of business was shelter. He couldn't just waltz into the school like a lost extra; he'd end up spelled into a frog or something. A mile down the road, a faded neon sign flickered: Mystic Inn. Quaint, overpriced, and mercifully vacant.
The lobby smelled of mothballs and lemon polish, the clerk—a wiry woman with cat-eye glasses—barely glanced up from her crossword.
"Room for one night," James said, sliding his debit card across the counter. Praying it worked across dimensions. It did, with a satisfying beep. $89. Ouch, but better than sleeping in the woods with potential werewolves prowling.
Room 207 was a time capsule: floral wallpaper peeling at the edges, a bed sagging under a threadbare quilt, and a TV bolted to the wall that probably only got three channels.
James locked the door, double-checked the chain, and collapsed onto the mattress. His pulse thrummed in his ears. Teleported. To here. It wasn't adrenaline anymore; it was terror, pure and electric.
He needed to ground himself. Something normal. Human. His stomach growled, a reminder that interdimensional travel didn't come with snacks. Pizza. Yeah, pizza and Pepsi—the holy duo of comfort.
He grabbed the room phone, its cord coiled like a snake, and dialed the first delivery spot from the motel's dog-eared directory: Mystic Falls Pizzeria. "Large pepperoni," he ordered, voice steadier than he felt. "And a two-liter of Pepsi. Room 207 at the Inn. Thanks."
Twenty minutes later, a knock. James peered through the peephole—delivery guy, acne-scarred and bored, holding a grease-stained box. No fangs in sight. He paid with a ten from his wallet, tipping generously out of sheer gratitude for mundanity, and shut the door with a sigh.
The pizza steamed on the rickety desk, cheese stretching in golden strings as he folded a slice. First bite: heaven. Salty, spicy, the crust crisp enough to crunch. He cracked the Pepsi, the hiss like a lifeline, and chugged straight from the bottle. Bubbles fizzed up his nose, cold and familiar.
For a moment, the world shrank to this: grease on his fingers, the tang of tomato sauce, the quiet hum of the mini-fridge. No screens floating in the air, no impossible choices. Just a guy eating junk food in a nowhere town.
But the calm was fragile. He paced between bites, mind spinning. Two days. That's all he had before the pilot episode kicked off—the memorial for the governor's daughter, the first Malivore mud monster slithering out of the woods.
Hope would be there, all fierce eyes and bottled grief. Josie and Lizzie, the Gemini twins, scheming in their dorms. Landon Kirby, oblivious to his phoenix destiny. And him? James Harlan, fanboy transplant. Did he warn them? Interfere?
He glanced out the window. Dusk painted the sky bruise-purple, fireflies winking like distant spells. In the treeline, shadows shifted—too fluid for deer.
A chill prickled his skin. Werewolf pack on the prowl? Vampire scouts? The show's lore flooded back: compulsion, vervain, full moons. He had no powers. Just wits and a half-eaten pizza.
Finishing the last slice, he wiped his hands on his jeans and rummaged the motel's drawer for the local map. Mystic Falls: town square, high school (irrelevant now), the old mill where bodies always washed up.
The Salvatore School loomed largest, a five-mile hike back. Tomorrow, he'd scout it. Eavesdrop, maybe. Figure out if this was a gift or a curse.
The Pepsi bottle sweated on the nightstand, condensation pooling like tears. James flopped back on the bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Home felt like a lifetime ago—subway rumbles, his mom's unanswered texts, the glow of his laptop screen.
Here, everything crackled with possibility. Danger, too. But for the first time in years, he didn't feel stuck. Teleported into a story. Maybe he'd write his own ending.
As sleep tugged at him, the shadows outside grew bolder—a silhouette darting past the parking lot, eyes gleaming amber in the sodium lights. James bolted upright, pulse racing anew. Not deer. Definitely not.