The happy ending I'd imagined for myself wasn't just torn apart—it was violently ripped to shreds and tossed into the gutter.
The peaceful life I had pictured, the idea that the serial killer's personality had conveniently vanished… all of it was a lie. My little fantasy of coasting toward a happy ending while living carefree? Completely worthless.
Thinking about last night made bile rise in my throat.
"Urgh… bleegh—"
No.
Stop.
I can't even think about it without wanting to vomit.
Let's… start from the beginning.
Escaping the scene had been surprisingly easy. The alley was deserted, and it was late enough that no one was around to witness the horror.
But the mace—god, the mace.
Covered in chunks of flesh.
Just remembering it made my stomach churn.
The thing didn't even stay a mace for long. With a press on the end of the handle, the blood-soaked weapon folded in on itself, shifting until it looked like a harmless rosary necklace.
As for my robe… the one drenched in blood?
Apparently, it was enchanted. Within minutes, the crimson stains and that sickening metallic smell simply faded away, leaving behind nothing but the crisp attire of a devout priest.
Easy to hide the weapon.
No trace of blood.
No evidence left behind.
I could feel Nigel's handiwork all over it—his twisted love for killing in every little precaution.
This bastard really thought of everything.
By the time I finally made it back to my room, I'd wandered the streets for what felt like hours.
The original author might wonder how I managed to lose my own house.
Look, even if I did write this novel, it's not like I included an exact address. And if you suddenly wake up in some random alley after living your whole life glued to a desk, how exactly are you supposed to find your way home?
The only fortunate thing was that I had two very convenient titles: a priest and an academy professor.
So, I wandered the streets until morning, and help eventually came my way. With a quick excuse about feeling too ill to make it home and the flash of my academy ID, some kind strangers delivered me right to my door.
Honestly, it was ridiculous—a priest claiming he was too sick to find his own house—but it was still better than wandering the city forever.
By the time I finally stumbled inside, collapsed, and passed out, it was already morning. When I opened my eyes again, it was nearly 5 p.m.
The good news?
Apparently, I hadn't killed anyone while I was asleep. I woke up in my own bed, breathing and unstained.
That didn't stop the anxiety, though. Before I fell asleep, I was trembling at the thought that I might wake up in a pool of blood, another life stolen while I dreamed.
Of course, it's possible that I had already killed a few people and simply slept peacefully afterward—but at least there was no evidence this time. And really, whether you're a serial killer or a lunatic, going on a spree in broad daylight would be a bit much. I never wrote Nigel to be that reckless.
Anyway, that's what led to the reopening of my Emergency Planning Committee—otherwise known as me, panicking alone.
Let's summarize the current nightmare.
First: It seems two personalities share this body. One is a struggling web novelist—me. The other is Nigel, a professional serial killer.
If you're asking which personality is worse… obviously the web novelist.
Sure, the serial killer murders people, but he's fictional. The web novelist is just trash. Unfortunately, that trash happens to be me.
Second: From what I can tell, the killer surfaces when I fall asleep or lose consciousness. At least, that's the pattern so far. I murdered someone last night but not during today's nap. Whether the switch is random or triggered by something specific, I have no idea.
Finally: Even if I do kill again, it's unlikely my identity will be discovered. Last night's shock came not just from the murder itself, but from the fear of getting caught. I kept imagining interrogations, witnesses, or the need to eliminate anyone who found out.
But Nigel—being a disturbingly efficient professional—has me covered. The mace is easy to hide, the robe is magically treated to prevent stains, and he clearly knows how to pick the right time and place.
Which is, of course, the biggest problem of all.
I may be the one breathing in this body, but I'm just a tenant. And my landlord?
A serial killer who refuses to miss a deadline.
Because of all these problems, I had no choice but to come up with a plan. If I couldn't stop him, then at the very least, I needed to talk to him.
I'd tried muttering in my head, hoping he might respond to my thoughts, but that never worked. So, I decided to leave a note instead. If I placed it on the desk, there was a good chance Nigel would notice it the next time he emerged.
After all, if he were a complete lunatic, communication would be hopeless. But Nigel—madman though he might be—still maintained a respectable position and played the role of a normal professor by day.
In other words, I couldn't be sure he was sane, but he was at least functional. That meant we might be able to communicate.
If he surfaced while I was asleep, he'd definitely see anything I left behind. At the very least, I could ask him to write back.
With that thought in mind, I walked over to the desk—
and froze.
It seemed Nigel had already beaten me to it.
A single sheet of paper lay neatly on the surface. Scrawled across it, in sharp, deliberate handwriting, were just a few words:
> Who are you? Why have you taken over my body?
My breath caught.
So… he'd been thinking the same thing.