I was just an ordinary office worker, the kind of person who blended into the background. My days were predictable — wake up, drag myself to work, sit under fluorescent lights, and type away until my eyes burned. I wasn't special. I wasn't remarkable. I was just… surviving.
That night, like many others, I came home exhausted. My tiny apartment felt as lifeless as I did. Out of sheer boredom, I reached for a book that had been collecting dust on my shelf. It was a fantasy novel — not my usual choice. The cover was faded, and the pages smelled old, but something about it pulled me in.
The story was about a girl. A criminal, they said. She had stolen important documents from a corrupt politician, proof of his crimes. Instead of being praised, she was caught, betrayed, and condemned to death.
Her name was Lysandra.
As I read, I felt strangely connected to her. Her fear, her anger, her stubborn will to live — all of it burned through the words on the page. The world around me seemed to blur as I kept turning the pages. My heart raced. My head felt heavy.
And then, without warning, everything went black.
When I opened my eyes again, the world had changed.
The floor beneath me was cold stone. Iron chains cut into my wrists. The stench of blood and mildew filled the air. Torches flickered on the walls, casting shadows across armored guards who stood before me, their weapons ready.
Confused, I looked down at my hands. They were smaller, thinner, not my own. My hair brushed against my shoulders, dark and tangled. I stumbled to a puddle of water and froze when I saw the reflection staring back at me.
It wasn't me.It was her.
Lysandra.
Shouts echoed from above — the sound of a crowd demanding blood. My blood.
Panic surged through me. My chest tightened as I realized the truth. Somehow, I had been pulled into the novel. I was no longer Arjun, the office worker. I was Lysandra, the condemned girl on death row. And I was about to die.
Fear clawed at me, but beneath it, something else stirred — something raw, something defiant. My hands shook, but I clenched them into fists.
"No," I whispered to myself, my voice trembling but firm. "I won't let this be the end. I will survive. No matter what."
And in that instant, the story was no longer fiction.It had become my reality.
The office clock ticked like a slow heartbeat, each second dragging my soul further into the abyss of routine. I sat hunched over my desk, eyes locked on the endless stream of numbers glowing on my monitor. Around me, the office buzzed with low chatter and the clattering of keyboards. My colleagues laughed over inside jokes and gossiped about promotions I wasn't even in the running for. I, on the other hand, was invisible—just another cog in a machine too big to notice me.
My name is Arjun. Twenty-seven years old, average in every way imaginable. Average face, average job, average paycheck, average dreams. The kind of man who could disappear tomorrow and the world wouldn't blink.
By the time the clock struck eight, I was the last one left. I saved the spreadsheet, shut down the computer, and left the suffocating cubicle behind. Outside, the city streets were already empty, neon lights flickering on broken billboards. My tiny rented apartment waited for me, quiet and hollow, like the rest of my life.
I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed on the narrow bed. For a while, I just stared at the ceiling, letting the hum of the ceiling fan blur my thoughts. But boredom gnawed at me. I wanted something—anything—that wasn't this monotony.
My gaze fell on the old bookshelf in the corner. Most of the books were ones I'd bought years ago in some fleeting attempt at self-improvement. Philosophy, business, self-help. All half-read, all forgotten. But one book stood out tonight. Its spine was cracked, its cover faded to gray, but a strange golden symbol was etched onto it—a bird wrapped in chains.
I didn't remember buying it.
Curious, I pulled it out. The pages smelled faintly of dust and ink, like something ancient. I sat cross-legged on my bed and began to read.
It was a fantasy novel, though not the kind with heroic knights or chosen ones. It told the story of a girl named Lysandra, branded a criminal by her kingdom. She had stolen important documents—proof of corruption—from a powerful politician. Instead of being praised, she was betrayed, captured, and sentenced to death.
The writing wasn't particularly polished, but there was something raw about it. I could almost feel her desperation bleeding through the ink. I read about the way her hands trembled as chains dug into her wrists, about the roar of the crowd that demanded her execution, about her stubborn refusal to bow her head even at the edge of death.
Page after page, I was drawn deeper. Her fear became my fear. Her anger burned in my chest. Her will to survive pulsed through my veins. I forgot the time, forgot the world outside my room. It felt less like reading and more like falling.
Then something strange happened.
The words began to blur. My eyes stung as if the letters themselves were alive, twisting into unfamiliar shapes. I rubbed at them, blinking hard, but the dizziness only grew. The room tilted, the ceiling spun. My heart thundered.
And then—darkness.
I don't know how long it lasted. A second? An hour? An eternity?
When, I opened my eyes, the world had change.
The first thing I felt was the floor beneath me—rough, damp stone, cold enough to seep into my bones. My wrists ached. I tried to move, and metal clinked. Chains. Heavy iron shackles bound my hands.
The smell hit me next—blood, sweat, mildew, and something sharp, like rust. The air was heavy and sour, nothing like my apartment. My chest tightened with panic.
I forced myself to look around. Torches flickered on the walls of a narrow dungeon, casting long, trembling shadows. A pair of guards stood in front of me, their armor dull but solid, their spears gleaming under the torchlight. Their faces were hidden under helmets, but I could feel their contempt pressing down on me like a weight.
My heart hammered. This couldn't be real. This had to be a dream.
I looked down at my hands. They were slender, paler than mine had ever been, the skin rubbed raw from the chains. My hair brushed against my shoulders—long, dark, tangled.
I staggered toward a puddle of water on the floor. My reflection stared back at me.
It wasn't me.
It was her.
The girl from the book. Lysandra.
I stumbled back, breath caught in my throat. My mind screamed for an explanation, but there was none. I wasn't in my apartment anymore. I wasn't Arjun, the office worker. Somehow, impossibly, I was her.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. A heavy door creaked open, and voices rose from above—angry, bloodthirsty shouts.
"They're ready for her," one of the guards muttered.
The other smirked. "The crowd's hungry tonight."
They grabbed me by the arms and hauled me to my feet. My legs wobbled, barely able to carry me. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might break free from my chest.
The shouts grew louder as we climbed the stone steps. My vision blurred from fear, but one thought carved itself deep into my mind:
I was going to die.
The book's story was playing out, and I was trapped in it. The girl had been executed. She never survived.
"No," I whispered, voice cracking. My throat was dry, my lips trembling. The guards didn't hear me—or maybe they didn't care.
I clenched my fists, the iron biting into my skin. Terror burned in my chest, but beneath it, something else stirred. Something fierce.
I didn't know why I was here or how, but one thing was clear: this was no longer a story. This was my life now. And I refused to let it end here.
My breath steadied, my fear sharpening into determination.
"I will survive," I whispered again, stronger this time.
The guards dragged me closer to the doors that led outside, where the crowd screamed for blood. My heart raced, my pulse wild.
"No matter what," I swore silently.
And with that vow, my new life began.