Rain battered the windows like thrown stones.
The city was asleep—except for him.
Kieran sat cross-legged on the floor of his cramped apartment, textbooks spread around him like shields. A flickering desk lamp buzzed overhead, casting gold over formulas and footnotes. Outside, lightning tore the sky open. Inside, he scribbled calculations in a cracked notebook, lips murmuring proofs like prayers.
He was sixteen. Too young for college. Too old to still believe in miracles.
Numbers made sense. People didn't.
Math never hit. Never lied. Never left bruises on his ribs or questions in his mind.
If a train leaves the station at 8:00 a.m. traveling at 65 miles per hour…
He knew how the world moved. How it hurt. How to disappear inside logic and pretend the bruises were just equations waiting to be solved.
He barely noticed the time until the knock came—three soft taps on his door. He froze. The only person who ever visited him was—
"Kieran," came a familiar whisper.
His eyes softened. He stood and opened the door. A tiny girl in rain-soaked pajamas flung herself into his arms.
"Lina," he breathed. "You'll catch cold."
She hugged him tighter. "You left the window open again. Mom's mad."
"She's always mad." He pulled her inside. "What are you doing awake?"
"I had a bad dream," she said. "About the fire again."
Kieran crouched down. "It wasn't your fault."
She nodded like she understood. She didn't.
"I want a story," she whispered. "A good one. With magic and swords and scary monsters."
He smiled faintly. "The one with the girl who saves the world?"
Lina beamed. "Yeah! And the boys who fall in love with her."
He tucked her under a blanket and began, his voice low and steady. "Once upon a time, in a kingdom where stars had fallen and monsters rose from the ashes…"
---
The next morning, Kieran died.
A delivery truck skidded on slick roads. Too fast. Wrong lane. A blur of metal and glass.
There was no pain. Just Lina's voice echoing in his mind:
"Tell me the part where the prince falls in love with her."
---
He awoke to hunger.
Gnawing, raw, choking hunger.
The air was thick with smoke. Not from a fire—no, this was different. Thicker. Bitter. It stung his lungs.
He opened his eyes.
Wooden beams. A dirt floor. A low ceiling and crumbling walls. He was lying on straw, covered in a thin blanket that smelled of mold and goats.
His body felt wrong—smaller, softer, trembling with weakness.
He moved and winced. Every rib jutted out like a blade beneath paper-thin skin. His hands were tiny, dirty, cracked with calluses he didn't remember earning. The air was cold. So cold.
"Is this hell?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
"No, child," came a croaking voice from the dark. "Hell is warmer."
An old man sat hunched by a dying hearth, stoking embers with a bent iron rod. His eyes glowed faintly in the gloom.
Kieran tried to sit up—and collapsed.
The old man looked at him. "You're awake. Thought the fever would take you."
"Where… is this?"
The man tilted his head. "Edge of Ashvale. Demonlands border. Don't get many starborns out here."
Starborn.
The word prickled at his skin like static.
And then he remembered.
The novel. Lina's favorite. The fantasy world she rambled about for hours. A girl reborn into a land of swords and spells. Of fallen empires and ancient gods.
Kieran's blood ran cold.
No.
He scrambled upright, heart pounding. He raced to the warped wooden mirror in the corner.
A gaunt boy stared back. Large violet eyes in a hollow face. Ash-brown hair tangled like straw. No older than five. He looked nothing like himself.
No.
No no no—
"Breathe, boy," the old man grunted. "You faint again, I'm not dragging you back."
Kieran stared at his reflection. At the worn room. At the sky outside, a dim purple-gray, with two moons hanging low like open wounds.
This isn't Earth.
And then, the worst realization of all:
This is Lina's book.
The one she never finished. The one with the heroine reborn in a magical world. The one where—
Kieran's eyes widened. The world's timeline rushed back to him. The monsters. The sword clans. The prophecy. The female lead who rises from nothing and becomes a queen.
But that girl—she's not here.
She never arrived.
Which means...
"...The story doesn't have a heroine anymore," Kieran whispered.
The old man looked at him sideways. "What's that, lad?"
Kieran didn't answer.
His hands clenched into fists.
If fate had broken…
If the heroine was gone…
And he was in her place…
Then this world was off its rails. A train heading for the cliff.
He wasn't a chosen one. He wasn't meant for this.
He wasn't brave.
But he was smart.
And if he'd learned anything in his last life, it was this:
When life hands you the wrong equation, you solve it anyway.
---
Let them come with their monsters and magic.
He'd already survived worse.
And this time… he was writing the ending himself.
---