It was a normal day — for everyone else. Full of possibility. For him? Just another evening in his rented apartment, leftover takeout cooling beside a glowing monitor, fingers hovering over the final sentence of a novel he'd poured months into.
"I did it again…"
He stared at the screen. At the words. At the story.
He was known — if he was known at all — as a mediocre writer. Generic. Predictable. But sometimes, people praised his worldbuilding — the systems, the rules, the layers that made his worlds feel alive. Still, the praise was thin. Critics called his stories boring. So he started cheating: overpowered heroes, harem tropes, cheap twists. He hated himself for it.
His stories had no soul — just templates, polished and hollow. No matter how rich the setting, it meant nothing if the people inside it felt like cardboard cutouts.
Silence was his companion. Not sad enough to cry. Not good enough to smile.
He glanced again at the title glaring back at him:
The Academy of Peerless Talent
"Even the name's a cliché," he muttered, voice thick with self-loathing. Another forgettable thing. Another disposable story.
He slumped forward, letting his thoughts drift — until the lights died.
Huh.
Darkness swallowed the room. Only faint streetlight bled through the blinds, painting ghosts on the walls.
"I thought that damn landlord fixed the power…"
He reached for his phone — then stopped.
Why bother?
He dropped his forehead onto the desk. In the quiet dark, for the first time in weeks, his mind went still. And for a moment — just a moment — he slept.
He woke with a gasp, head throbbing.
"Ugh… not now," he groaned, rubbing his eyes.
Then he froze.
His breath hitched. The room wasn't his. The air smelled different — clean, sterile. No clutter. No takeout boxes. No half-empty coffee mugs.
He wasn't tied up. No signs of struggle. Not kidnapped — but definitely not home.
He looked down at his hands. His clothes.
"What… am I even wearing?"
He stumbled to his feet, drawn to the mirror across the room.
The reflection made him stagger.
Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Brown eyes that looked like they'd seen too much — or not enough.
"Who… is this?"
He leaned closer. The face stared back — blank, almost designed. Like a character drawn in five minutes and forgotten.
"No. No way."
He slapped himself. Hard.
Nothing.
"This isn't real. This is a dream. Wake up!"
He sank onto the edge of the bed, heart hammering. His mind raced — Theo Blackthorn. The name echoed like a death sentence.
Theo Blackthorn.
A side villain. A plot device. A stepping stone for the hero to crush. A nobody written to die.
And now… he was him.