The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the buildings of Maplewood High. The campus buzzed with life—students clustered in tight groups, laughter and chatter blending into the hum of a typical afternoon.
Amid the commotion strolled Alex Turner, a sixteen-year-old who defined the word average. With tousled brown hair and a perpetually disorganized backpack, he was the kind of student who slipped easily under the radar. No one really noticed him—and he liked it that way.
Being an orphan since the age of seven had taught him how to survive with minimal attention and even less fuss.
As Alex shuffled along the sidewalk, he had his nose buried in a fantasy novel, the latest in a long list he'd been plowing through.
> "The Hero defeats the Demon King and wins the hearts of his harem… blah blah blah."
With a scoff, Alex closed the book.
> "Another boring cliché. I'm dropping this," he muttered, sliding it into his bag.
He stepped off the curb without looking.
And then—
everything went black.
---
When Alex opened his eyes, pain tore through him like a wildfire. He was sprawled on cold ground, limbs heavy, movement almost impossible. Each breath came slower, weaker—like the very air was being drained from his lungs.
> "Am I… dying?" he wondered, blinking against the dark haze pulling him under.
His vision dimmed.
---
The next time he opened his eyes, everything had changed.
The pain was gone. In its place: warmth. Comfort. The softness of silk sheets beneath his fingers.
He blinked up at a vaulted ceiling, a chandelier swaying gently above. Sunlight streamed through elegant, arched windows. The walls glimmered with intricate golden designs.
> "Wait… where am I?" he whispered, wide-eyed. "Aren't I supposed to be dead? Is this... a hospital?"
He sat up too quickly. A wave of nausea slammed into him, followed by a searing pulse behind his eyes. He clutched his head as fragments—memories that weren't his—rushed into him like a flood.
Dragons. Castles. Sword duels. Banquets. Betrayal. Fire.
Then—clarity.
> "No… this isn't my body," he breathed. "This… this is the fantasy novel I was reading!"
And just as the panic began to rise, the horrifying realization struck like a slap to the face.
> "I'm the villain. The arrogant noble who insults the protagonist and dies in chapter five."
His jaw dropped.
> "The guy whose backstory was never explained... Son of the Dragon Queen… and he just dies like that? That's me?!"
A new understanding dawned.
> "No wonder the Dragon Queen hated the protagonist. The novel never explained why—because this… this is why."
He stared down at his unfamiliar hands—pale, elegant, powerful. A faint glow danced under his skin, like embers slumbering just beneath the surface.
> "Great. Just great. I'm the mystery background villain with a cool bloodline and zero plot armor."
Then, a pause.
And a grin.
> "Well, at least I don't have to change my name. We share the same one."
He leaned back against the headboard, heart still pounding—not with fear now, but with something else.
Excitement.
> "If fate made me the villain…" he whispered, eyes burning with a new resolve,
"Then I'll rewrite the story myself."