The air was cool as rain drizzled before gradually turning into something else. Timothy pulled out his umbrella, the nylon snapping open with a soft thwack. His eyes scanned the deserted street.
Timothy wasn't alone at the bus stop, at least.
A couple of university students gathered under one umbrella, their laughter echoing clearly over the downpour.
His fingers tightened around the handle — a nice one his mother gifted him on his last birthday, back when she'd been trying to make him more presentable. As if a good umbrella would somehow transform her son into someone the relatives didn't whisper about.
His free hand slipped into his coat pocket, finding his phone. The screen lit up, casting blue light onto his face, then went off. His reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass — curly dark hair plastered to his forehead, hazel eyes dulled by late-night shifts, brown skin glistening with fine mist.
[Twenty minutes until the bus. Estimated arrival: 11:47 PM.]
"It's ten thirty already!" one of the students sighed.
"I know! This is insane. Maybe we should just trek? It's deserted enough."
The others sighed collectively, but nobody moved.
Timothy's thumb hovered over the transit app for a moment before muscle memory took over, swiping to reveal his reader app underneath. Some generic omegaverse romance with an alpha's silhouette looming protectively over a smaller omega figure. The title was forgettable. The plot was... well.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
'Might as well,' he thought, tapping the screen. 'That cliffhanger was absolutely criminal.'
Chapter 47. Right where he'd left off — the moment the protagonist discovered that his childhood friend, the alpha he'd been pining after for six years, had been scent-marking him in his sleep.
The sexual tension was unbearable. Timothy had been forced to close the app for twelve straight hours just because he'd been the only available cook at the restaurant. Even getting paid higher than usual hadn't made him feel less choked.
He shook his head, grinning despite himself.
It was ridiculous, really. Six months ago, his reading library had consisted entirely of cultivation novels and court political fantasies. Dense, plot-heavy narratives where characters spent three hundred chapters learning to fight cosmic wars. He'd prided himself on his sophisticated taste.
Then Anna had shoved her phone under his nose during lunch.
"Just READ it," she'd insisted, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Trust me. It's life-changing."
"A Love Scented With Peppermint? Anna, are you serious? That title sounds like something next to…"
"It's smut, Timmy," she'd whispered, leaning in. "High-quality smut. And the world-building is actually amazing."
He'd tried to resist. He'd really, truly tried. He'd even pulled up his current read — a book where the main character was currently trapped in a spatial rift fighting a sentient demon — just to prove his literary superiority.
But the bus ride home was long.
He'd clicked the link intending to read two paragraphs, laugh, and delete the bookmark.
Instead, he'd read thirty chapters in one sitting, missed his stop, and spent the next week sacrificing sleep, social interaction, and proper nutrition to digest omegaverse content. Pure fluff and a truly excessive amount of domesticity and erotica. The kind of story where the entire conflict revolved around two idiots who were clearly in love but couldn't communicate to save their lives.
His friends had been absolutely delighted. They'd created a group chat dedicated entirely to screaming about their current reads and drafting increasingly unhinged theories about fictional characters' relationship dynamics. Timothy had gone from the friend who recommended political thrillers to the friend who sent twelve paragraphs analyzing why a particular alpha's possessive behavior was actually a trauma response and needed to be addressed before the relationship could be healthy.
Almost all those analyses came after a smut scene.
He'd never been happier.
It was utterly, wonderfully trashy. And Timothy wouldn't trade it for all the cosmic energy in the nine heavens.
He settled his back against the cold glass of the shelter, the sounds of the students' chatter and the rain fading as he dove into the chapter.
A loud crack of thunder ripped through his concentration. The blue screen light flickered across his startled face.
A collective shriek went up from the students. One dropped their phone.
Timothy glanced up, expecting lightning — but instead caught something else. The students' legs were already in motion, sprinting away into the curtain of rain, before he'd even fully registered the pair of powerful overhead lights bearing down on them.
One of the students slipped hard. A wet, sickening thud followed by a sharp scream.
"Huh—" His voice swallowed instantly by the downpour and the sudden roar of an engine.
Timothy flinched, attention split three ways. His novel, the car, the girl.
The headlights swept left and right. Speeding toward the bus stop, veering away, then correcting. And the stupid driver kept accelerating.
Before he could even turn, before the instinct to run fully registered, he tripped on his fallen umbrella and went down on one knee.
He looked up just as the car corrected its wild trajectory, turning sharply and directly toward the bus shelter.
Too late. He scrambled anyway, hands against the wet road, muscles screaming — he could feel the heat radiating from the lights, smell the acrid burn of hot engine oil and rubber cutting through the damp air. Above the engine and the rain, the students' horrified screams intensified. They hadn't run far enough.
'Fuck,' Timothy finally managed to steady himself, but the front grill filled his entire vision.
Just for a moment — an eternity compressed — he inhaled deeply. Gulped down the rain-soaked smell of the city at night. Tasted it on his tongue like it was the first and last breath he'd ever take.
The world went black.
Then silent.
Then a smooth, calm voice cut through the silence.
"Welcome, Timothy." Formal. Impossibly close, right beside his ear, though there was nothing but the void. "That was a wild way to go, even by your worst standards."
'Oh my god. I'm dead.' Actually dead. Splattered across a bus stop like some tragic side character he always was. No more late shifts, no more group chat screaming about knotting scenes, no more—
"Now, now, let's not panic just yet," the voice continued, a hint of amusement threading through the calm. "You can open your eyes, dear. It's safe."
"Huh?"
Timothy blinked — and realized he'd been kneeling with his eyes closed the whole time.
He was in a room constructed entirely of polished white marble. Bright enough to be almost painful. Multiple identical, unmarked doors lined the perimeter, each humming faintly.
A woman stood against a large mahogany desk, dressed like a corporate executive from a vintage film. Sharp suit, padded shoulders, silk blouse, dark hair in an impeccable chignon. Her expression was plain neutral.
Timothy's eyes rolled the perimeter and stopped on the suspiciously glowing doors.
'Am I transmigrating?!' His eyes lit up instantly. 'Oh my god. I'm getting a personal system. OMG!!'