Chapter One: The Life That Wasn't Fiction
I met him in the comments section of a badly written web novel.
The story itself was terrible—an overpowered main character, recycled plot, rushed fights that meant nothing. But the comments were alive. People argued about chapters, insulted the author, defended their favorite characters like it mattered. Sometimes the comments felt more honest than the story ever tried to be.
That was where his username kept showing up.
He didn't comment often, but when he did, it was long. Not the forced-intellectual type that quoted writing rules. Just honest observations. He complained when things didn't make sense. He pointed out small details nobody else cared about. Once, he admitted he kept reading a novel he hated simply because he couldn't stand leaving things unfinished.
That annoyed me more than it should have.
So I replied.
We went back and forth under that chapter, then moved to private messages without really discussing it. The conversation just… continued.
We talked about novels. About endings that ruined good stories. About characters who deserved better writers. Sometimes we talked about nothing—why it was easier to stay awake at night, how reading comments was more fun than reading the chapters themselves, how time disappeared when you scrolled too long.
He read what I read. I read what he read. Our tastes matched in a way that felt suspicious, but I ignored it.
It felt easy.
Too easy.
Like talking to someone who already knew how my mind worked.
One night, long after midnight, he sent a message that didn't follow the flow of the conversation.
I'm writing something.
I stared at the screen for a second before replying.
What kind of thing?
A novel.
I almost laughed. Everyone online was "writing a novel." Half of them never finished chapter three.
I sent a joking reply about how I'd read it when it existed.
There was a pause. Then another message came in.
Can I use you?
That made me stop.
Use me how?
Before I could type that out, another message appeared.
As the main character.
Not inspiration.
Not reference.
Main character.
I asked what he meant.
Your life. Your habits. The way you think. I'll start from where you are now.
That should've been where I said no.
I remember the cursor blinking while I stared at the chat. I thought about how little he actually knew about me. No real name. No face. No address. Just words on a screen. Just patterns in how I spoke.
It didn't feel dangerous.
So I typed:
Alright.
He replied with a simple thanks.
No excitement. No explanation. No follow-up questions.
The conversation drifted back to novels like nothing important had just happened.
After that, nothing really changed.
We still talked. Still shared links. Still complained about bad writing. Sometimes days passed without messages, sometimes we talked for hours. Normal online friendship things.
Then, slowly, he talked less.
Replies came late. Then shorter. Then not at all.
I didn't think much of it.
Life went on.
Months later, a novel appeared on the platform.
It didn't start loud. No flashy promotion. No aggressive author notes. It just climbed the rankings steadily, like it knew it would get there eventually.
People wouldn't shut up about it.
The comments were full of praise. Reviews talked about how real the main character felt. How his thoughts didn't sound like a writer trying to be deep. How his life before gaining power felt painfully ordinary.
That description stuck with me.
Out of curiosity, I clicked it.
The first chapter wasn't fantasy.
It was someone waking up tired. Checking their phone. Scrolling without interest. Thinking about nothing in particular and too many things at once.
It was my routine.
The second chapter was worse.
The way the character procrastinated. The way he reread messages before sending them. The way he overthought small decisions and ignored big ones.
Even things I had never typed out were there. Thoughts I remembered thinking but had never shared.
I told myself it was coincidence.
Then I reached the part where the character complained internally about a specific novel.
A novel I had complained about.
Using almost the same words.
The main character didn't have a name yet. Just "I."
The comments praised that choice. Said it made the story immersive.
I felt sick.
The story didn't give him powers immediately. No awakening. No system window. No glowing light. Just life. Ordinary, boring, frustrating life.
My life.
Then, in the story, he died.
It wasn't heroic. No sacrifice. Just an accident. Sudden. Pointless.
The chapter ended there.
The next chapter opened with a sentence that made my chest tighten.
This was the first time I died.
That was when the power appeared.
Hundred Man Revival.
A skill that allowed the user to return to the moment of awakening after death. A hundred uses. A hundred lives. Every death branching into a new timeline.
The comments exploded.
People theorized strategies. Counted remaining lives. Debated which timeline was "real."
Nobody talked about the first life.
Because to them, it was just backstory.
To me, it was a record.
My hands were shaking when I closed the page and opened my messages.
I scrolled.
His name wasn't there.
I searched it manually.
User does not exist.
I checked old comments.
Gone.
I searched the platform.
Nothing.
Like he had never been there at all.
But the novel was still updating.
Still climbing.
Still describing lives that hadn't happened yet.
And somehow, reading it felt less like fiction—
and more like a warning.