I used to think dying would be so dramatic. You know, slow-motion plummet, sobbing farewell, perhaps a weird light in the horizon. But no, I choked on a gummy bear and woke up in my unfinished fantasy novel.
Yeah. "My" book. The one I penned in a delirious fog during finals week. It was to be a hobby, not a new mailing address.
Now I'm stuck in a kingdom I hardly recall plotting, among characters I didn't bother to provide with actual personalities, and for some reason, I'm not even the hero—I'm just. present. A background extra with complete insight into impending betrayals, magically convenient items placed conveniently nearby, and a love subplot that certainly needs rework.
With the villain suspiciously appealing, the heroine AWOL, and the plot disintegrating quicker than my GPA does in midterms, I've got two choices:
1. Let the story go on (and pray I don't die again).
2. Take over the narrative before it all collapses.
Yeah, I don't possess a sword or a prophecy—but I *do* have inside information, questionable intelligence, and an intimate, emotional connection to caffeine.
This wasn't the tale I was intending to share.
But now? It's the one I must survive.