Alex Walker's POV
It didn't take long before someone finally walked into the room. The door creaked softly on its hinges, and a small figure stepped through. She was a small-statured, red-haired girl. Her movements were careful, cautious, as if afraid she might disturb something important. I recognized her instantly, even before she had taken more than a few steps into the room.
She was with me when I woke up earlier. I didn't remember much about that moment—it had been blurry, frantic, chaotic—but her face stood out. There was something oddly calming about it, even in the middle of the madness.
Even though I went into a frenzy when I woke up, there was no forgetting her face.
She was too pretty for me to forget it.
There was this softness about her—something almost storybook-like. Freckles that dotted her face just beneath her eyes, the kind of feature that only ever seems to exist in imagination. Her hair was the color of a burning sunset, loose curls bouncing gently with each step she took. Her eyes, though—I couldn't remember their exact color, but I remembered how wide they had been. Scared, confused. Like a deer caught in headlights. She had looked like she was trying to help, but I had been too far gone at the time to let her.
Now, she was walking towards me again, slowly and carefully, holding a tray. There was probably food or medicine or something on it, but I wasn't paying attention to that. I watched her carefully, trying to make sense of her presence.
She was walking normally at first—delicate steps, one foot in front of the other, a rhythm to her pace. Then, she noticed my gaze. She flinched slightly, just a twitch, but it was enough to see. And then I noticed the change in her demeanor. She became a lot more nervous. Her steps faltered, her arms tightened around the tray, and she refused to meet my eyes.
Figures. I can't even beat the cliché allegations. Waking up confused in a bed, acting all out of it, staring at some poor innocent girl like some moody anime protagonist. I went and ended up in an asshole.
"Where am I?" I asked her as soon as she was close enough to hear me.
She blinked, her brows knitting together in confusion. "Excuse me?"
She was surprised now. No longer nervous. That was good. I preferred surprise to fear.
"I asked where I am," I said again, this time more firmly.
She seemed to gather herself, straightening up a bit, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "You're in Madam Talia's house," she said.
"Madam Talia's house where?" I asked.
She hesitated, a flicker of something crossing her face—was it confusion? Worry? "In Luxarion City," she finally answered.
As soon as she said those two words, my eyes widened.
Luxarion City. That was surprising. That was the name of the capital of one of the empires I wrote about in my book. It wasn't just a name I pulled from thin air; I remembered crafting that city, pouring hours into its design, imagining its politics, its culture, its layout. I even drew a rough map once.
Come to think of it, Madam Talia did sound like one of the characters I'd written about. She was a minor character, really—a kind of mentor figure who helped the protagonist in the early chapters. Nothing too elaborate.
Wait…
"What's your name?" I asked, suddenly alarmed. My voice came out sharper than I intended. Urgency bled through, startling her a little.
"M-my name, sir?" she asked.
"Just tell me your name, goddammit!" I shouted.
A mistake.
As soon as I raised my voice, I started coughing violently. A dry, ragged cough that felt like it was trying to rip my lungs out. My body was still weak—probably from whatever brought me here in the first place—but even as I clutched my side and doubled over, my eyes never left her face.
"My name is Clara," she finally replied. Her voice was small, and this time, she was scared.
Great. Just perfect.
If it was even possible, my eyes widened all the more when I heard her name. Madam Talia, cute red-haired girl named Clara, Luxarion City. Too many pieces were clicking into place, too fast. My heart started racing.
"And what's my name?" I asked.
"Your name is Lorien, sir," Clara answered.
And that confirmed it.
I had somehow ended up inside my novel.
After making that realization, I had a lot of questions. Why? How? How does a person just wake up inside a story? Especially one they wrote themselves?
"You can go now," I said, trying to dismiss Clara. She didn't need telling twice. She was already halfway to bolting before I said anything.
After she left, I burst out laughing. It was a dry, bitter sound. The kind of laugh that doesn't feel good—it just forces itself out of your chest like something rotten.
The universe really hated me. Out of all the books in the world, it could've picked any of them. Any. I've read hundreds—hell, thousands. But no. Somehow, someway, it picked mine.
Now, normally, that wouldn't be a problem. In fact, it might've even been fun. Being the main character, exploring a magical world, getting cool powers, going on epic adventures.
There was just one tiny problem.
The world was set to end in ten years.
That was a rash decision I made when I was angry. At the time, it felt dramatic, tragic—exactly what a dark fantasy needed. I didn't even think much of it. I had the entire world on a countdown. Ten years until destruction. Ten years until everything ends. I thought it gave the story weight.
Now that I was actually going to live in that world, I realized that maybe that wasn't the best idea.
Wait… I got AI to write an ending. Right. I remember that.
How did it go again? Did the main character manage to save everyone?
Probably. It was an AI that wrote it. Those things couldn't write anything too sad. Most of them avoided tragic endings unless you forced them to go dark.
But what if the AI didn't give it a happy ending? What if it decided that tragedy was more poetic? More meaningful?
What would happen to everyone?
I burst out laughing again, louder this time. It echoed around the room, bouncing off the walls like some twisted celebration.
Whatever happened to them… I didn't really give a shit.
I ended up here because I wanted to die. I was on this bed because I wanted to die. And if I had to wait ten years to get my wish… then there was no problem.
The only difference is… I'll be taking everyone else along with me.
But of course, it's not my problem.
---
While Al—Lorien—was busy anticipating world genocide, Clara stumbled out of his room. Her face had gone a little pale, her breaths shallow as she stared at the door behind her. Her knuckles were white from gripping the tray too tightly. Suddenly, she was thankful for the door.
It locked that monster away from her.
Doors. Always so useful.
It was at times like this that we always appreciate what we take for granted. Something so simple. A door. A wooden barrier. But right now, it felt like a wall between her and madness.
"Hah!" Clara didn't even get to take a few steps before she let out a startled scream. As a result of her fright, the tray in her hands, along with the contents—bread, broth, a small glass of something—crashed onto the floor with a loud clang and splash.
It was at that moment that she realized something horrifying.
She didn't even do what she was supposed to when she went into Lorien's room earlier.
"Lorien. How is he?" Talia asked from behind her, startling her even further.
"M-madam, you startled me," Clara stuttered, her voice shaking.
"How is he?" Talia repeated, her tone more insistent this time.
"Madam, forgive me but…" Clara hesitated.
"What's wrong?" Talia asked. Her voice had gone quieter, but it wasn't calm. It was fear. She was starting to get scared.
"The young master… The young master. I think he's…" Clara trailed off again, clearly struggling to find the right words.
"Fucking out with it!" Talia screamed, her patience shattering.
"I think the young master is crazy."