It all started with an email.
Out of nowhere, a stranger messaged me asking if he could rewrite my novel. I sat there stunned. Sure, I was on a short break, but asking to remake a novel that had been serialized professionally?
I didn't even bother replying.
Copyright issues aside, I felt embarrassed. There was pride buried somewhere deep, and the idea of someone else handling my story, especially one that felt unfinished, didn't sit right with me.
The novel in question was The Hero has Returned. It wasn't a viral phenomenon, but it was my best work in five years and had built a decent following. I had been on hiatus for three months when that email arrived.
Why? Because the words just… stopped coming.
In the beginning, I had poured myself into the story. I built a world nearly 50,000 words deep before the first chapter even dropped. Every update came from the heart. But a year in, something cracked. Even though I kept writing for another six months, it became painfully clear—something was broken. The plot was full of gaps. Characters felt off. Their personalities collapsed into contradictions. Readers noticed. The numbers dropped. I stopped reading the comments.
Eventually, I ghosted my own story. I didn't even try to write anymore.
And then, as I was wallowing in my own creative burnout, came a second message.
---
[from: homosapiens@neighbor.com]
Please. This is only for my personal satisfaction. I won't share the remake with anyone. It'll stay between us. Who knows? Maybe it'll even inspire you to pick up the story again...
---
It wasn't long or eloquent, but it felt genuine. This stranger wanted to rewrite my novel for his own sake. No sharing, no publishing—just a private tribute.
How much must he have loved novel to send something like that?
I wasn't proud of the work. So with a strange mix of gratitude and shame, I agreed.
Looking back now… maybe that's what triggered everything.
Because the next thing I knew, I wasn't in my room anymore.
I was in a stranger's apartment. Not in my world. Not in my body. That sounds philosophical, I know. But it wasn't. It was literal.
I had become an extra in my own novel. A character I had never even created.
His name was Noah Swagger.
Noah lived alone in a nondescript apartment. No parents. No family. I had no idea why—I never wrote anything about him. At age nine, he'd somehow gotten accepted into the Hero Association's prep program, designed to train the next generation of elite monster-hunters and demon-fighters.
But what talent had Channing ever shown to qualify?
I had no clue.
I didn't know his background, his personality… not even what he looked like.
I'm serious. I had literally never written him.
When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was:
(?)
A floating question mark where my face should be.
I thought I was losing my mind.
I went to sleep in my old life… and woke up as a complete stranger, on the last day of the prep semester.
Naturally, I had two theories.
One: this was an elaborate prank. I dismissed that quickly.
Two: I was dreaming. But dreams don't last two weeks with this level of detail. I could feel pain. Taste food. Sense dread. And besides, no dreamer actually knows they're dreaming while inside it.
So for the past two weeks, I'd been stuck wondering if this fictional world was now my real one.
---
Ding, ding—
My phone vibrated. I'd been staring at the ceiling in a daze. Time to get ready for school.
"Why the hell do I have to go to school?"
The Hero Association had already held its graduation ceremony thirteen days ago—but that was just for non-combat cadets. Support roles. They'd never be called heroes.
Combat cadets, on the other hand, had three more years ahead of them. They were headed to the Association's elite training ground—Valor.
And unfortunately for me… this random background character, Noah Swagger, had somehow made it into the combat track.
Great.
I hadn't done anything worthwhile since waking up in this world. Mostly just ate when I was hungry, skimmed through the internet, watched some surprisingly decent comedy shows, ate again, and slept. The only real event was dragging myself to Washington D.C. two days ago for the three-hour Valor entrance ceremony. I didn't want to go, but skipping it meant expulsion.
"I guess I have to go…"
I still didn't know how I ended up here, or who was responsible, or what kind of power could pull something like this off. But I'd come to terms with it, more or less. If I was stuck here, I might as well survive.
In the world of my novel, becoming a hero was the dream job. Dangerous? Yes, villains would eventually appear. But the story was approaching the hiatus point. I just needed to live long enough to reach it. Maybe then I'd figure something out.
7:33 A.M.
Classes started in 57 minutes.
With a sigh, I got up and dragged myself to the bathroom.
The mirror greeted me with that same damn question mark.
"Screw this," I muttered. "Is this thing ever gonna go away?"
It wasn't like I had simply forgotten to describe this character's appearance. If that were the case, everyone else in the world should've had blank faces too. But no, only this guy, this forgotten extra, had a question mark for a face.
"None of this makes sense…"
I washed up anyway. The water was cold, the sensation real. Too real.
Then I changed into the black-and-gray Cube uniform I'd received at the ceremony. I didn't own much else. Anyone who saw the uniform would assume I was lucky, or even exceptional.
But me?
I was just confused. Still trapped in a body that technically shouldn't exist.
Before leaving, I looked around the apartment, my home for the last two weeks. I'd only found it because of the address listed on my cadet ID. Somehow, I felt a little attached to it now. Familiarity has a funny way of creeping in.
Valor wasn't even in the city. It floated above an isolated island far out in the Atlantic.
Once I left, I probably wouldn't come back.
---
Haaah…
With that, I stepped out the door and into a strange new world.
A world I once made up…
but no longer controlled.