Chapter 1: Out of the World
There was a crack in the ceiling. A long, jagged scar that split the plaster, like something ancient had tried to claw its way through. I stared at it, unmoving, as dust drifted lazily in a shaft of light slicing through the dirty windowpane. The room smelled like old paper… and something metallic.
I had no idea how long I'd been sitting there, but I knew I had just woken up.
The chair beneath me creaked as I shifted. My legs were stiff, hands numb. In front of me sat a worn wooden desk, its surface faded by time or neglect… it was hard to tell which. To my left, a fake plant gathered dust thick enough to write in. To my right, a photograph in a cracked frame: a man and woman frozen in an intimate moment that felt too personal for a stranger to see.
Still, I couldn't look away.
There was something in my eye… maybe joy, maybe not. I blinked, and when it didn't go away, I reached into my coat pocket. My fingers brushed against something cold and smooth. Sunglasses. Round lenses, black as a cave. I paused.
In their reflection—faint and warped—I saw myself.
Dark hair. Strong jaw. Eyes that didn't quite blink in sync with how I felt.
Eyes that matched the man in the photo.
The realization hit me like a gut punch. I sat up straighter, suddenly aware of my heartbeat pounding like an alarm.
"Who am I?"
The question echoed, weightless and crushing all at once. I reached for an answer… a name, a memory, anything! But my mind gave me nothing. Just static.
And yet… something lingered beneath the surface.
Instinct.
I knew things. I knew the smell of this room. I knew the light was coming from the east, which meant it was morning. I knew what a desk was. What a chair was. That I was a person.
A human being.
I slid the sunglasses onto my face. It felt right. Like they belonged there. Like they belonged to me.
But the question still hung in the air.
"Am I a human being?"
No. That wasn't it.
Something inside me knew that wasn't the real question. I couldn't explain it, but the doubt ran deep. The real question was something else entirely.
My eyes drifted back to the desk. A thin layer of dust had been disturbed and something had been moved recently. In the center lay a folder, thick and slightly yellowed, placed so precisely it felt like it had been waiting for me.
I reached for it.
The first page had a photo.
My photo.
Same face. Same dark eyes. Same blank expression I'd just seen in the glasses. Below it, typed in a crisp, clinical font:
Name: Gavin Goodman
Status: Volunteer
Project: G.O.D.
The paper fluttered slightly as I lifted it.
G.O.D.
The letters hit something deep inside me, like a switch flipping. I had no idea what the acronym stood for, but the moment I saw it, a ripple of recognition ran down my spine.
Gavin Goodman.
Was that me? The name didn't sit right and it felt off, like wearing a jacket tailored just a little too tight. Still, it was the only name I had. I whispered it under my breath.
"Gavin…"
It sounded foreign, like I was saying it for the first time. But the name didn't fight back. It let me borrow it.
Outside the cracked window, a gust of wind stirred the dust. For a moment, sunlight blazed through the glass, too bright to look at.
I still didn't know who I was. But someone clearly thought I'd volunteered for something. Something important.
Project G.O.D.
Whatever that was… it had to be why I was here. And maybe why I couldn't remember anything.
My fingers hovered over the file, hesitation creeping in. It felt like touching it might make it more real.
I flipped the page.
The paper was brittle and yellowed, like it had passed through too many hands. Most of the content had been censored—thick black lines swallowing entire paragraphs—but enough was left to sketch a rough, unsettling outline.
[PROJECT G.O.D. – CLASSIFIED]
SUBJECT FILE: #G-001 "GOODMAN, GAVIN"
CLEARANCE LEVEL: OMEGA
Status: ACTIVE
Designation: PRIMARY HOST CANDIDATE
"The goal of Project G.O.D. is to create a synthetic, autonomous intelligence with complete sensory projection (ESP-class capabilities), capable of altering its reality matrix through conscious intention alone. The subject, Gavin Goodman, has demonstrated a consistent and replicable threshold beyond acceptable human limits for—"
[DATA REDACTED]
"…interfacing with Phase-Level 3 phenomena and may be the first viable candidate for trans-conscious elevation. Cognitive stability remains within operational parameters despite minor identity dissociation events."
Notes:
– Memory lockdown procedures initiated: March 18
– Subject unaware of full scope — recommended to remain unaware until Integration Phase
– Conscious link to field frequency unknown. Potential anomaly?
WARNING: DO NOT DISCLOSE FULL SCOPE OF PROJECT TO SUBJECT UNTIL PHASE 4 FINALIZATION
I let out a slow breath. My pulse pounded in my ears like war drums.
I turned to the next page.
It was worse.
Diagrams I didn't understand filled the sheet… dense visuals tangled with notes in the margins. Words like "Neurofracture Threshold" and "Synthetic Ontology Feedback" blurred together like science fiction gibberish. One sketch showed a human brain, but it was wrapped in something unnatural… a geometric halo? An aura?
G.O.D. was printed in bold at the top of the page, but there was no explanation. Nothing that made any sense.
I whispered to no one, "What even is a god?"
It felt ridiculous, saying it out loud, but the silence was heavy. Seeing the word printed in a government file made it hit differently.
"A being with control over the universe?" I said again, softer. "Over… reality?"
I didn't know where the thought came from, but it felt true.
What qualified someone—or something—as a god? Power? Omniscience? Immortality?
And if that was the bar… what did that make me? A candidate? A failure? A lab rat?
And what the hell was ESP, really?
"Extrasensory perception," my brain answered, automatically.
I blinked. "That's… weird."
A whisper stirred from somewhere deeper.
"Who's there?"
Seeing without seeing. Knowing without being told. Moving without touching. Perceiving something beyond the ordinary.
"Weird… I think I saw something… wispy…"
Then, suddenly, something hit me. Not a memory, exactly, but a feeling. Standing in a room with no walls, no floor, no ceiling… just space. Infinite and alive. Watching me back.
I blinked hard and shook it off.
Was I hallucinating? Or was that what ESP actually felt like?
I went back to the file.
The final page had just one sentence. Unredacted. Centered. Typed in smaller font than the rest:
"You are not the first. But you may be the last."
A chill crept down my spine.
I closed the folder, fingers trembling slightly. It felt heavier than before—not just because of the paper, but because of what it implied.
I sat there, still holding it, trying to process what "G.O.D." and "ESP" actually meant for me, when something shifted in the corner of my eye.
A soft breeze slipped through the cracked window.
The curtain twitched.
Something fluttered on the desk.
I turned.
A single sheet of cream-colored paper, its corner slightly crumpled, slid across the surface like it was trying to escape.
My breath caught.
Instinct kicked in. I slammed my palm down on it.
The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. My heart raced. My hand shook just a little. I stared down at the paper like it might catch fire.
"Relax," I muttered, half-laughing, half-panicked. "It's just… paper."
I exhaled, peeled my hand away, and smoothed the wrinkles gently. Then I set the folder aside—my file, my life—now only half of the mystery.
At the top of the page, written in quick, familiar handwriting was a greeting…
Hello, Gavin.
My lips parted. "A letter?"
The handwriting was familiar.
Too familiar.
I began to read.
The letter read:
Hello, Gavin,
Okay, there's a lot I want to say. You might think I'm crazy—and honestly, you'd be right—but hear me out first.
I'm you.
But from a different universe.
Where I'm from, there's no such thing as ESPs, no dungeons, no monarchies still running the world. And definitely no one throwing lightning because they're pissed at the weather. Honestly… your world is insane. But weirdly beautiful.
Anyway. Deep breath. Here's the thing:
For the past two years, I've been living your life.
Yeah. I'd go to sleep in my world, and I'd wake up here, in your body. I don't know how it works. Dreamwalking? Body hijacking? Quantum soul-leaping spiritual nonsense? Whatever it is, I've felt every second of it.
And I… kind of loved it.
Even as a test subject, we were treated decently. Humanely. I saw the world through your eyes. I felt what you felt. I fell in love. I found meaning. I became more than I ever was back in my version of Earth.
You gave me that.
So... thanks.
Now here comes the crazy part.
You, Gavin, live in a novel.
I know. Sounds delusional. But it's real. The book's called Ascension of the ESPer God. It's this bizarre mashup of dungeon-crawling action, pseudo-science, and really questionable romance. The prose is trash, but it's got a cult following.
And you—we—are a gag character.
Comic relief. One of those background guys who shows up for a punchline or to get blown up halfway through a big fight. According to the plot, you're supposed to die… somewhere near the end of the second arc. No glory. No legacy. Just gone.
But…
I killed the character who was supposed to kill you.
I wasn't supposed to. That part hadn't even been written yet. But I did it anyway. I changed the story. And the consequences were... worse than I imagined.
I think I broke the timeline. I might've triggered something apocalyptic. I wouldn't know. I left before I could see how bad it got.
But I left something behind: a journal. My journal.
It's filled with notes: events, timelines, warnings, character maps, and every prophetic breadcrumb the author planted across the series. I wrote it all down. Everything I could remember.
Find it.
And when you do… burn it.
Burn it before the main story begins.
With all my fractured love and apologies,
—Gavin
I stared at the last line for a long time. Longer than I probably should have.
My throat was dry. My skin cold.
"Dreams," I whispered. "He's been dreaming as me…"
A version of me had been living my life. And now, apparently, I was trapped in a badly written novel. With a built-in death scene.
I slowly set the letter down and buried my face in my hands.
"This is insane."
But as I sat there, surrounded by fake plants and dusty sunlight and folders about creating gods, the most disturbing part wasn't what the letter said.
It was the way it all felt…
True.
I sat in silence, the paper trembling between my fingers.
My chest felt tight. The room had gone too quiet again… like it was holding its breath with me.
I turned the paper over, half-expecting nothing but blankness.
But the other side was written on too. Same handwriting. Slanted. A little rushed. Like the writer didn't have time to waste.
Like he knew he might not finish.
I read:
P.S.
I really am sorry for leaving you this mess. I'm a total jerk for stealing your life. You didn't ask for any of this.
The thing is… if you're reading this, I'm probably dead.
I have cancer. I'm having an operation today. It's been growing inside me for a while—terminal, aggressive, the kind of tumor that laughs at chemo and eats PET scans for breakfast.
This surgery is my last shot. If I die on the table, I don't think I'll come back. And if I don't, that means you're all that's left.
I kind of hope I'll just... merge into you. Cleanly. Seamlessly. That'd be nice, right? Of course, it's selfish. But I'm not one of those guys who throws himself in front of a truck hoping to get isekai'd into some fantasy harem adventure.
I'm the guy who writes backup letters for his body double in a parallel universe.
So yeah. Here we are.
Okay, that's all.
Actually… one last thing.
The main story kicks off in two months. That's when everything goes sideways. Dungeons. Monsters. Powers. Plot armor. The whole ridiculous package.
So you need to start searching. My journal's out there somewhere. And it's dangerous—full of things no one else should know. Character arcs. Death flags. Even the real identity of the final boss.
As for our ESP? It's called… Aura Farming. Yeah... I know. Dumb name. Not mine. Blame the writers. Also, blame the past version of ourselves.
Before all this, we were kind of a loser. A smart-ass, arrogant, bitter dropout from the ESPer Academy. Self-sabotaging. Lonely.
But we got better. I got better. You still can too.
One more thing: check under your leather jacket. There's a phone. It should still have some battery left. On it is the contact number of the person I trust most in this world.
If anyone can help you, it's her.
Good luck, Gavin.
Make it count.
—You
The words didn't hit all at once. They bled into me slowly, like ink soaking into cloth.
Cancer. Surgery. Death.
He was gone.
Or… I was gone?
I didn't even know how to separate him from me anymore.
"This is bizarre on so many levels," I muttered.
I reached for the leather jacket hanging off the back of the chair. My fingers paused mid-air, then slid into the inside pocket.
Cold metal.
I pulled out the phone. It was old, chunky, black, and a little scratched, but still intact. I pressed the side button.
The screen flickered on.
2% battery. One starred contact. No name. Just a number.
"Who do you trust so much?" I whispered. "And why does this feel like the beginning of something I'm not supposed to survive?"
I didn't know what scared me more… the idea that I was living inside a novel, or that I might still just be a side character in someone else's story.
Either way... the story had already started.