Archive of Our Own ^beta

THE FIRST THING...I noticed was the light.

Not warm sunlight. Not even the dim, flickering sort that hums overhead in hospitals. This was harsher—clinical, fluorescent—like someone had screwed neon tubes directly into my skull. It sliced through my eyelids in angles too precise, too sharp, and far too awake for whatever this was.

I groaned.

My head didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt... full. Like someone had replaced my brain with a bag of cotton wool and static. My mouth was dry, my tongue unfamiliar, clumsy against my teeth. My hands twitched beneath me, brushing against something cold and unwelcoming—metal, maybe. Or concrete. Hard to say. My brain hadn’t quite caught up to the part where things had weight and texture.

For a long, uncertain moment, I just lay there. Staring.

The sky above me wasn’t blue.

It was a pale, silvery sheen, streaked with bright, swirling fractures—like someone had smashed a mirror and scattered the shards across the clouds. They hung there, glinting, suspended in air like pieces of broken glass refusing to fall.

Which, all things considered, wasn’t ideal.

Around me, the skyline stretched upward in angles that didn’t quite make sense—black spires, too smooth, too symmetrical, like a fever dream of the future. Buildings that shimmered with their own light. Towering structures that bent the laws of physics just enough to make my stomach turn.

And the ships.

They hovered midair, motionless yet humming. Too steady for helicopters, too sleek for jets. Like someone had redrawn the rules of flight while I wasn’t looking.

Okay.

I closed my eyes again.

Deep breath. In. Hold. Out.

This was fine. This was probably fine.

Because obviously, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. No version of reality I knew included silver skies or floating ships or buildings shaped like knives. Which left me with one of three options:

One: Dream.

Two: Coma.

Three: Hallucination.

I went with coma. It sounded marginally less embarrassing than hallucinating a sci-fi skyline. People fell into comas all the time and woke up in places their brains had cobbled together from memory, TV shows, and the occasional Reddit spiral. Right? It happened.

Because the alternative—the one brushing against the frayed edges of my thoughts—was just too absurd.

I swallowed.

The absurd thing had a name.

Love and Deepspace.

No. Absolutely not.

I shook my head. Or tried to. It was like moving through syrup. My body wasn’t quite mine yet.

This wasn’t that. This was just... brain noise. A side effect of too many sleepless nights and maybe a mildly enthusiastic mobile game phase. That was all. People dreamed about video games all the time. That didn’t mean I’d somehow ended up inside one. That would be ridiculous.

So ridiculous, in fact, that my heart was starting to beat a little too fast just thinking about it.

I sat up slowly. The ground beneath me tilted, a slow, nauseating see-saw. Balance wobbled, but held.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—sharp, synthetic bursts echoing against the skyline like a warning shot. I turned toward the sound.

Figures moved in careful formations, small as ants against the horizon. Uniformed, some of them. Black silhouettes flitting between metal towers, fast and focused, like they knew exactly what they were doing.

I squinted.

Pain bloomed behind my eyes, a quiet, steady throb—don’t look too hard.

Another breath. Shallower this time.

Dream. Coma. Hallucination.

Pick one.

The air tasted like metal.

That strange, sterile tang—part scorched wire, part hospital corridor. Somewhere nearby, something sizzled. A pulse of heat rolled through the street like an aftershock, brushing against my skin with the vague threat of combustion.

I pushed myself upright, limbs reluctant but intact. This time, my knees held. Small victories. I’d take them.

A voice rang out in the distance—male, sharp, cutting through the static of my thoughts.

“—Pipsqueak!”

I didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t for me. Obviously. Why would it be?

Another burst of static cracked above. A ripple of... something—energy? reality?—shimmered across the silver sky like heat on asphalt. My brain tried to explain it, failed, and quietly replaced the gaps with white noise. I moved forward. Or wandered, really—aiming vaguely for the direction that seemed least likely to kill me.

“Pipsqueak!”

There it was again. Closer this time.

A chill climbed my spine.

I slowed. My heart stuttered in its rhythm, and logic gave up entirely.

Just look. Not hard, not long—just enough to confirm this is all a mistake.

I turned.

And froze.

He was running toward me.

And by he, I mean him. The man. The myth. The military-grade mistake of my emotionally stunted dreams. The colonel. The fan edit. The character who had no business being that hot in a pixelated cutscene.

Caleb.

And—dear god—it was really him.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. I just stood there, limp and blinking and deeply malfunctioning, as he sprinted toward me across the broken street like the chaos was just backdrop and he’d been waiting for his cue.

His boots hit the ground like a metronome. His coat flared behind him like it had been programmed to. And that face—that face—wore the expression. The one he always had right before everything went to hell: intense, focused, softer than it had any right to be. Brow furrowed just enough to look concerned. Jaw set. Eyes sharp enough to slice through time itself.

And then—swear to god—I heard it.

That song.

The edit song. The one with the slow drum and the breathy vocals that every Caleb stan on the internet had synced to his most dramatic cutscenes. The one where the MC catches him mid-fall, wounded but weightless, the entire galaxy burning behind them.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a full string section began to swell.

I actually shook my head. “Stop it,” I muttered, half out loud. “Get a grip.”

It didn’t help.

Because the way he was looking at me—as if the universe had cracked open and I was the only piece left that mattered—was exactly like the game.

He shouted something again. I didn’t catch the word. Just the sound of it: urgent. Certain.

I stumbled back a step.

Because this wasn’t some lookalike. This wasn’t some glitch of the coma-dream matrix. This wasn’t fan art or hallucination.

This was him.

Real. Undeniable. Breathtakingly—infuriatingly—three-dimensional.

Which meant… which meant…

I swallowed hard. My throat rebelled. My palms had gone slick.

He was almost close enough now that I could see the shift of his muscles beneath that damn coat. The way each step sent a ripple of motion through his body, grounded and graceful, like even gravity didn’t want to get in his way. His boots struck pavement with military certainty. His voice carried like a commandment.

He was real.

Too real.

This wasn’t a face cobbled together from bad lighting and wishful thinking. This wasn’t the result of scrolling too many fan pages at 2 a.m. He had weight. Presence. Light clung to his skin like it didn’t want to let go. His voice resonated. His gaze held.

And me?

I wanted to drool.

Right there. Mid-apocalypse. Mouth open. Brain buffering. One click away from falling flat on my face in front of an emotionally unavailable fictional war god.

I was about to be scooped up into the arms of a man who, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t supposed to exist—except with abs that could end world peace and a voice that sounded like safety and sin rolled into one muscular, tactical daydream.

He was nearly upon me when survival instincts kicked in—and promptly malfunctioned.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I shut my eyes, slapped my face, and hoped I’d pass out.

I didn't.

The sting rang out louder than expected. My palm left a warm print across my cheek, and my dignity evaporated on contact.

When I opened my eyes again, he was there.

Right there.

Towering over me like a verdict.

“Pipsqueak.”

His voice was lower now, wrapped in something between relief and reprimand. Like someone who’d been holding his breath too long and only just remembered how to exhale.

I stared up at him, utterly silent.

Because what exactly do you say to a man who thinks he knows you better than anyone in the universe—when you’ve only ever known him through a screen?

“Are you hurt?” he asked, already reaching for me. “Did you hit your head?”

Yes. On the pavement of delusion.

“No,” I said quickly, even though my voice cracked like it had been in storage since 1998. “I mean—yes. Maybe. I don't know.”

His hands found me before I could back away.

One cupped the side of my face, angling it gently toward the light. The other hovered under my elbow, like I was something fragile—something that might fall apart if left unattended for too long.

Which wasn’t... inaccurate.

But his touch. God.

Warm. Grounded. Steady. So deliberate, like he’d done this before. Like this was muscle memory. Like he’d held this face in his hands a hundred times—knew it from the curve of the brow to the line of the jaw.

I couldn’t breathe.

And I couldn’t lie, either. Not well. Not under pressure. My face was a glitching disaster of emotions—shock, awe, guilt, and a flash of something primal I will not be taking questions on at this time.

He misread it, of course.

“Still in shock,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over my cheekbone.

I shivered. Not helpfully.

“You're freezing.”

No. I was combusting. Actively boiling inside my skin. My bones were sweating. If he touched me for one more second, I’d melt straight through the pavement.

“Pips, your vitals are all over the place,” he said, checking some kind of wrist scanner he’d unclipped with infuriating efficiency. “You must've been close when the second pulse from the rift hit.”

Second pulse? Rift hit? The hell was he talking about...

My brain could not compute. It was juggling too much: his nearness, his impossible voice, the nickname he kept using like it belonged to me.

“Stop calling me that,” I said.

Too sharp. Reflexive.

He blinked. His hands stilled, but didn’t fall away.

My breath caught.

And then, without thinking, I moved.

I pushed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not even forceful. Just a small, shaky shove to the chest—barely enough to make him step back. But he did. Instantly. Like the spell broke the second I touched it.

We stared at each other.

His face shifted. Only a little. A flicker of confusion, chased by something quieter. Something dangerously close to hurt.

“I'm sorry,” I blurted. “I just—don't touch me.”

It came out worse than it felt.

Inside, I was clawing at my own ribs, trying to make space to think. His closeness had short-circuited something critical.

He straightened slowly. Not offended. Just... recalibrating.

“Alright,” he said softly. “No touching.”

The way he said it—careful, like it hurt—made my stomach twist.

Like he'd done something wrong.

Like I had.

“I didn't mean—” I started, but the words tangled and fell apart in my mouth before they could reach air.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He wasn’t supposed to exist. Not like this. Not with real muscles and real warmth and real concern folding into every breath. He was supposed to be code. Character art. A game.

And yet, somehow, he was looking at me like I’d just broken his heart with one uncertain step.

He stepped back. Half a pace. Just enough to give me room. Just enough to let the cold rush in.

“It's okay,” he said. “We can talk about it later...”

His voice was softer now. Like I was made of glass, and he’d already heard the first crack.

He turned his head, muttered something into a comm clipped to his collar. I caught fragments—medical, stabilized, containment zone—but none of it landed.

I stood there, adrift in my own body.

Because he thought I was her.

The real her. The MC.

And I... wasn’t.

Not the one who’d grown up with him, trained beside him, made him laugh, made him stay. Not the one who teased him into softening, or shattered him just enough to help him heal.

That was her story.

Not mine.

But he didn’t know that.

And I couldn’t tell him.

Because if I did, I might lose the look on his face.

This softness. This impossible tenderness—woven through ash and urgency and dust and dread.

So I said nothing.

Besides, I needed answers. How I got here. And—if it was even possible—how to get home.

Caleb turned his head again, murmuring into his comms, his voice clipped now—brisk, efficient, all that earlier warmth folded beneath military precision.

“Secure the perimeter. Prep evac. She's coming with me—yes, I'll bring her in for assessment. Zayne's on standby, right?”

I blinked.

Zayne?

The name hit like a spark to dry kindling.

My head whipped up. “Wait—did you just say—?”

But he was still talking, still barking words I couldn’t follow—containment, bio-signal, integrity, elevated charge—his mouth moving around the vocabulary of a world I wasn’t supposed to be in.

I took a step forward, breath lodged high in my throat.

Did he just say Zayne?

As in... ZAYNE?

As in Doctor Zayne?

As in sweet-tooth, sharp-witted, god-tier-with-a-scalpel Zayne? The one with the voice like melted chocolate and hands that made the fandom lose structural integrity?

As in Dawnbreaker Daddy?

I stared at Caleb, genuinely unraveling.

Because that name wasn’t background noise. That name was legend. That name wore glasses and saved lives with one hand while tearing through enemies with the other. That name had a two-part origin myth, a drop rate lower than mercy, and an entire corner of the internet dedicated to his jawline.

And now he was apparently… on standby?

Like this was just a normal Thursday?

“What—”

A sharp beep cut through the air.

Then another. Then a rising whine, mechanical and shrill—like a futuristic kettle winding itself up to panic.

I looked down.

A device. Strapped to my wrist. Sleek and unfamiliar, pulsing blue at the edges. Numbers scrolled across the surface—fast, tight, cryptic. A countdown? Coordinates? Diagnostics?

“What the hell is that?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

Caleb turned.

No—snapped.

He crossed the space between us in two strides, wrapping one hand around my wrist and lifting it for a better look. His eyes scanned the display, jaw tightening.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Metaflux spike. Too soon.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be worried, terrified, or offended that metaflux wasn't just a word in a game, but a real thing in my current reality.

Before I could settle on a reaction, he looked at me again—different now. Sharper. Command-mode fully engaged.

“You still have your handgun?”

I blinked. “My what?”

“Your sidearm. On your thigh.”

“My gun?”

He gestured—two fingers, quick and precise—toward my leg like it was obvious.

I followed his gaze.

And choked.

Strapped to my thigh—like a casual accessory—was a matte black firearm. Sleek. Polished. Very real. It hugged the curve of my leg like it had always been there. Like I belonged with it.

My stomach flipped.

I hadn’t even noticed it. I had a gun. I had a gun.

I. Had. A. Gun.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. That's... a lot.”

Caleb’s face didn’t shift, but something eased slightly around his eyes. Like he registered the rising panic and adjusted for it in real-time.

“I know your head's still scrambled,” he said, calm and even. “But we don't have time. Wanderers are breaking through the breach.”

Wanderers.

As in the actual nightmare fuel from the game?

The voidborn horrors with spindly limbs and glowing mouths and movement patterns that made your skin crawl?

I swallowed.

Hard.

This wasn’t funny anymore.

(Okay, it had stopped being funny about three hallucinations ago, but this was now fully entering run-screaming-into-the-sunset territory.)

Caleb saw it—the shallow breath, the inching step backward, the way my fingers curled like I could vanish into my own palms.

And to his credit, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t push. He just stood there—still, grounded. Like he’d wait forever if I needed him to.

“You're safe with me,” he said quietly.

And I hated—hated—that it helped.

That those four words landed somewhere deep and shaking. That they loosened something I hadn’t realized I was holding. That they made me want to believe him, even though everything in me screamed don't.

It wasn’t the words.

It was the way he said them.

Not we'll keep you safe. Not you'll be fine. But you're safe with me.

It was personal.

It was protective.

It was too much.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

Once.

Because if I opened my mouth, I might scream.

Caleb shifted beside me, speaking into his comm again—voice low, clipped, all business.

But I wasn’t listening anymore.

The air had changed.

Not the temperature. Not the pressure. Something else. Something… off. Sharper. Thinner. Like reality itself had sucked in a breath—and forgotten how to exhale.

Then the light bent.

Not dramatically. Not with thunder or fanfare. Just a shimmer—subtle, glassy—like a mirage on hot pavement.

Except it moved against the breeze.

Wrong.

Wrong in a way that prickled across my skin like static. Like instinct. Like the deepest part of my brain had already decided we are not supposed to see this.

Caleb snapped to attention. “Get behind me.”

And then I saw it.

The tear opened twenty meters out—ripping clean through the air like a mouth mid-scream. A sickly blue glow spilled from the breach, curling around something moving.

No—emerging.

Limbs.

Not arms. Not legs. Limbs. Jointed too many times. Bent in ways bones should never bend. Skin like wax stretched over sinew, too smooth, too long. It pulled itself from the rift as if being born—and hating every second of it.

A Wanderer.

An actual, canon-accurate, Wanderer.

And up close?

It wasn’t just nightmare fuel. It was too real.

Flickering sigils twisted across its body, pulsing with something foul and alive. Its face—or whatever it had instead—turned toward us, blind but searching. It clicked.

Once. Twice.

Like bone tapping bone.

Caleb stepped in front of me.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Because my body had gone ice cold from the inside out.

This wasn’t a cutscene.

There was no turn order. No dodge button. No pull to restart.

The creature roared.

Sound cracked through the sky like a warning shot from hell itself. The ground shook. Caleb raised his weapon.

And me?

I just stared, lips parting, voice flat with disbelief as my nervous system gave up entirely.

“Oh, fuck no.”

T o b e c o n t i n u e d . . .

THE THING...—the Wanderer—moved with the grace of a nightmare.

Not fast. Not slow. Just… deliberate. Like it didn’t need to rush because it already knew how this ended.

Its limbs—those too-long, too-smooth limbs—coiled inward, then snapped outward with a twitchy, too-slick motion that flung it forward across the fractured terrain. Each step felt wrong. Reversed. Like someone had animated it backward and forgotten to hit undo.

I couldn’t look away.

Not because I was brave.

Because I was locked.

Some deep, animal part of me had short-circuited, whispering ancient survival strategies like: Play dead. Think smaller. Maybe it eats confidence.

Caleb didn’t hesitate.

He stepped ahead of me with the kind of solid, unshakable certainty that made the world shrink around him.

And then he fired.

Light tore from his weapon, clean and precise, slicing across the Wanderer’s chest.

It hissed.

Not in pain. In acknowledgement.

Like Caleb had just rung the dinner bell.

The glowing sigils along its skin pulsed—faster now. Urgent. Hungry.

Then it surged forward.

“Back!” Caleb shouted, still firing, still unshaken. “Stay behind me!”

Yes. Good plan. Excellent plan. I loved that plan.

I did not move.

I didn’t even breathe.

Because that was the moment my brain chose to whisper:

Hey. What if this is real?

Not a dream. Not a coma. Not a dissociative episode with disturbingly good CGI.

But real.

Real monsters. Real guns. Real consequences.

Caleb fired again—this time hitting something vital. One of its limbs buckled with a wet, crunching snap. The Wanderer shrieked, the sound slicing through my skull like glass.

“Your sidearm!” he called. “Draw it!”

My what now?

Then I remembered.

The gun.

Strapped to my thigh like I was starring in a Bond film I hadn’t auditioned for.

I looked down.

Still there. Neatly holstered. Like it belonged.

(It didn’t. We both knew it didn’t.)

But my hands moved anyway. Mechanical. Detached.

I gripped the handle. It was heavier than it looked. Warm from my skin. Too real.

My fingers didn’t shake until I pulled it free.

Then they wouldn’t stop.

“Breathe,” Caleb said—firm but steady. “Line of sight. You've got this.”

Do I? Is that a thing I've got?

My arms lifted. The barrel wobbled.

The Wanderer—still fixated on Caleb—tilted. Just slightly. Like it had sensed something else.

Something smaller.

Something me.

I aimed for center mass. Or maybe center goo. It wasn't exactly big on traditional anatomy.

I swallowed. Pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked harder than I expected. The sound wasn’t just loud—it was a crack, sharp enough to slap the air sideways.

I stumbled, ears ringing—

And then—

Contact.

The shot landed.

The Wanderer reeled, spasming violently, as if something had yanked its spine from the inside. It shrieked, staggering back on its misshapen limbs, sigils flashing in a frenzy.

I blinked.

Stared at the gun in my hand. Then at the smoke curling off the barrel like it belonged in a movie. Then—

I laughed.

Loud. Breathless. Wild.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, turning to Caleb with my mouth hanging open and my face lit up like someone had just crowned me Miss Post-Apocalyptic America. “Did you see that? I did that!”

Caleb glanced over.

Still calm. Still alert.

But something flickered in his expression.

Approval.

Not a smile.

But close.

“Not bad,” he said.

And I—swear to god—I beamed.

For a solid three seconds.

And then the Wanderer shrieked again.

And my legs remembered how to panic.

I stumbled backward without meaning to—my heel catching on a crack in the concrete that hadn’t existed a heartbeat ago. The ground tilted—just slightly, but enough. My balance slipped. My arms flailed for something, anything.

But there was no anything. Just air. And noise.

The creature was recovering.

Its limbs jerked once. Then again. Twitchy. Violent. Like a puppet being yanked by too many invisible strings. The sigils across its body flickered like dying neon, re-igniting one by one. One pulsed a furious, unnatural blue—and I felt it.

Not in my ears. Not in the air. Inside.

Like a hum beneath my skin. A frequency just wrong enough to itch in my bones.

Caleb said something—short, sharp—but I didn’t catch it.

Because that’s when the Wanderer lunged.

Not at him.

At me.

And just like that, every brave thought I’d had a minute ago—every triumphant laugh, every “hell yeah I just shot a space demon” glow—shattered like wet paper in a thunderstorm.

The world rushed forward. Or maybe I rushed backward. Didn’t matter.

Because the thing hit the ground in front of me like a meteor wrapped in bone, and the impact exploded.

A shockwave ripped out in all directions—raw, concussive power that hit before I could brace. And suddenly I wasn’t standing anymore.

I was airborne.

No scream. No thought.

Just instinct.

Then impact.

Hard.

And not the cinematic kind. No slow motion. No graceful tumble. Just me, slamming into the ground like a collection of limbs and bad decisions. Elbows scraped, breath punched from my lungs in one graceless exhale.

Something sharp bit into my shoulder as I rolled.

Glass? Metal?

A fractured idea of who I thought I was before today?

I lay still for a beat, blinking up at a sky that had gone weirdly pale. The edges of my vision pulsed. My ears rang. My body hummed like I was made of exposed wiring.

Then—

Weight. Heat. Movement.

Caleb.

He was over me—in front of me—on me, really. One hand gripping my forearm, the other braced beside my head, solid as steel.

His body curled around mine, forming a shield. A wall. Like he’d dropped out of orbit and made me his crash site.

“You okay?” he asked, voice close. Breath brushing my cheek.

I blinked.

Swallowed.

Tried very hard not to notice how… present he was. Everywhere.

His chest pressed against mine. One arm curled around my waist. His knee—oh, hello, we’re very familiar now.

My mouth opened. Nothing clever came out.

“I think I forgot how to have bones,” I whispered.

A pause.

Then—to my absolute disbelief—he huffed a quiet laugh.

“Still sarcastic,” he murmured. “Good sign.”

He shifted his weight, giving me enough room to breathe without accidentally inhaling his shirt.

(Which, by the way, smelled like metal and clean sweat and something faintly smoky—like the air right before a storm.)

He reached up, brushing something from my hair. Dust. Debris. Possibly a chunk of my dignity.

“You took the hit better than I expected,” he said, scanning my face. “Not even a scratch.”

I didn’t know what to do with that.

Not the compliment exactly—but the way he said it.

Like he knew me.

Like we’d done this before. Like I’d fallen before. Gotten up before. Always survived. Always gotten right back in the fight.

I wanted to say: You've got the wrong girl. I wanted to say: I shouldn't even be here.

But I didn’t.

Because maybe one wrong word would break the logic of this place. Maybe it would shatter him. Maybe it would snap this whole thing like paper in the rain.

So I said the only thing that felt safe.

“I think my watch is broken.”

Caleb looked at me for a beat too long—like he was reading a language etched across my face.

Then he shifted back on his heels and offered me his hand.

I took it.

His grip was warm. Steady. Grounded.

Mine was cold and static and not entirely sure it belonged.

Still, he pulled me up like I weighed nothing. Like the universe had decided I wasn’t a problem worth resisting.

“Stay close,” he said, eyes flicking toward the still-flickering rift. “We're not out of this yet.”

I nodded.

Because my lungs were working again.

But my heart?

My heart was still somewhere on the ground.

Caleb stepped ahead of me again, moving like the fight wasn’t over.

Because it wasn’t. Not really.

The Wanderer was still alive.

Sort of.

It dragged itself through the rubble with a stuttering limp, one leg folding at the wrong angle beneath it. Sparks flickered where the sigils on its body had begun to decay—like a dying circuit board—but it didn’t stop. It didn’t surrender. It just kept crawling.

And Caleb didn’t hesitate.

He raised his weapon.

Eyes steady. Stance sure. No uncertainty. No delay.

The blast was quieter this time.

Mercy has a different kind of volume.

The creature folded in on itself with a final, twitching shudder. Its limbs curled inward, its glow sputtered. And then it slipped back into the rift it had come from—like someone pulling a zipper shut on another dimension.

One last hum of static. Then nothing.

Gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a few suspended seconds, all I could hear was my own heartbeat—tight and steady in my ears. A drumbeat written just for me.

Then Caleb turned.

“You're bleeding.”

I looked down.

So I was.

A thin red line trailed down my arm, seeping slowly through the fabric of my sleeve. It wasn’t gory. Barely even painful. Just… there. Unignorable.

“Oh,” I said. “How rude of me.”

Caleb didn’t smile. But something behind his expression eased, almost like a twitch of warmth behind glass.

He thumbed his comm device.

“She's hit,” he said. “Not bad. But we need med.”

I stiffened.

Med?

No. No, no. Not yet. Not until I understood the rules of this place. The logic. The boundaries. I hadn’t had a tutorial. No dialogue tree. No pause menu.

I needed time. Not trauma kits.

“I'm fine,” I said, too quickly.

“You're not,” Caleb replied, calm and immovable.

He wasn’t being mean. Not annoyed. Just factual.

And that somehow made it worse.

He stepped forward again and extended his hand—like it was nothing. Like shielding me from monsters, catching my fall mid-battle, and now guiding me out of the wreckage were just routine maintenance items on his daily checklist.

I took it.

Because my pride was somewhere beneath a pile of cosmic shrapnel.

He guided me toward a tilted slab of what used to be a road divider, his palm pressed lightly to the small of my back. Steady. Warm. Grounding.

I tried not to notice it.

Or how close we were. Or how my legs still hadn’t fully signed the walking contract.

But mostly, I tried not to speak.

Because every part of me wanted to say something dangerous. Something obvious.

Like: You're even hotter up close.

Or: I downloaded your character arc on a rainy Thursday two months ago and now I'm bleeding inside it.

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.

So instead, I focused on walking.

Left foot. Right foot. Don’t trip. Don’t overshare. Don’t mentally short-circuit in the presence of fictional military-grade jawlines.

And then—

Buzz.

My wrist console vibrated sharply.

A low beep echoed, followed by a voice crackling through the speaker—smooth, composed, and just faintly amused.

“Well. That's not the worst field report I've seen.”

I froze.

No.

No way.

Caleb didn’t miss a beat. He tapped his wrist and replied, all steady calm: “She's stabilized. Light laceration. Possible minor concussion. We're en route to evac.”

But I wasn’t hearing him anymore.

I was hearing him.

That voice.

Zayne.

I swallowed hard.

Don’t react. Don’t panic. Don’t do anything that might implode the fictional atmosphere currently pretending to be your life.

“I'll prep medical,” the voice said, as cool as a snowstorm. “Bring her in gently.”

Caleb muted the channel with a flick of his wrist.

“Almost there,” he said, voice low. “Just keep walking.”

Sure.

Right.

Walking.

Left foot. Right foot. Don’t cry. Don’t blurt Doc Daddy? out loud.

Don’t say anything.

We crested the edge of the crumbling hill and—

There it was.

The evac shuttle.

Matte black. Sleek. Still humming like it had somewhere more important to be. A few Farspace medics moved between open panels, their motions brisk and impersonal—like this was just another line on the Thursday rota.

Caleb led me toward the boarding ramp.

His hand was still at my back. And while some part of me was undeniably thrilled about that, the more rational, anxiety-ridden portion of my brain had questions. Like: How long am I expected to play along with this? What if I get caught? What if I sneeze and break the gravity engine or—

“Careful,” Caleb murmured as I stumbled.

The ramp hissed beneath our feet as we stepped inside. I blinked against the dim lighting.

Sterile. Clean. Cold-gray walls etched with glowing panels. A row of fold-out medical chairs that definitely doubled as interrogation seats. And in the center of it all, standing with his back turned—

Zayne.

He didn’t move at first.

He was typing something into a console—deliberate, precise. His lab coat hung perfectly from his shoulders, sleeves rolled and collar crisp. His hair was pulled back, revealing the clean cut of his jaw.

He hadn’t even looked up.

And yet my entire body had already decided to classify him as both threat and imminent system overload.

I froze.

Not from fear.

From buffering.

Brain short-circuited. Tongue gone. Stuck somewhere between what do I say and what if I forget how to say anything at all.

Then he turned.

His gaze swept the shuttle once—clinical, detached—before landing on me.

And holding.

His expression didn’t change. Not exactly.

But there was something slow in the way he looked at me. Measured. Like he was reading a chart only he could see.

“I was told you'd taken a hit,” he said.

Oh no.

That voice.

That voice had a body.

And that body was here. In 3D. Breathing. Wearing tailored sleeves and weaponized cheekbones.

“I—uh. Yeah. Sort of. Light scratch.” I cleared my throat. “Barely counts. Definitely not worth interrupting your very important... science?”

Science. Brilliant. Absolutely nailed it.

Zayne blinked. Slowly. Like a lizard assessing prey.

“I wasn't aware a concussion came with a stand-up routine.”

Caleb didn’t react.

Of course he didn’t.

This was his normal.

But me? I was a puddle in boots pretending to have bones.

Zayne stepped closer. His gaze didn’t waver.

I had the very stupid thought that if he stared any harder, I might forget my name and start answering to Patient just to please him.

“I need to assess you.”

Right.

Yes. That made sense.

Medical things. Healing. Professionalism.

None of which prepared me for the moment he touched me.

Just two fingers under my chin—light, practiced, impersonal. He tilted my head toward the light. Scanned my temple. My pupils. The line of my jaw. Each motion precise, cataloguing damage like a surgeon mapping a battlefield.

“You're flushed,” he murmured. “Could be trauma. Or stress. Or... other causes.”

His thumb brushed my cheekbone once.

I blinked.

“I—um. Sorry. I usually have better... circulation?”

Zayne arched one brow. Barely.

Behind me, Caleb made a sound. Low. Indecipherable. Disapproval? Amusement? I didn’t look.

I was too busy trying not to combust beneath the pressure of one hot, gloved, fictional doctor’s undivided attention.

Zayne’s fingers dropped away.

“Sit,” he said. “Before you fall.”

I nodded too quickly and backed toward the nearest seat, trying not to trip over my own limbs or dignity. I perched like a Victorian ghost unsure of modern furniture.

Zayne turned back to the console. A screen lit up, displaying vitals I didn’t recognize.

And then—

My name.

Except… not the one I was born with.

The one I typed in two months ago, wine in hand, assuming this game would be a harmless distraction from real life.

Now it pulsed on-screen in bold white letters.

Familiar. Intimate.

Not mine.

Zayne’s voice cut through again. “No cranial bleeding. Vitals steady. Light metaflux disruption.”

“I don't know what that means,” I said, trying to sound casual and not like someone quietly hiding the apocalypse in their back pocket.

Zayne didn’t answer. He tapped a few keys, then turned to Caleb and said, with surgical precision:

“She's stable. You did well.”

Caleb nodded.

My chest ached.

Not from the injury. Not even from fear.

But from the quiet gravity of this moment. This place.

Because they knew her. They believed in her. And I had no idea how long I could keep the illusion from cracking.

Zayne’s voice broke the silence.

“You have a concussion.”

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

Just truth—delivered with the blunt finality of an email notification. No emotion. Just inevitability. Probably followed by a PDF.

I blinked.

“You'll need rest,” he continued, already typing. “Monitored, ideally. You're lucid now, but I'd prefer someone nearby in case symptoms shift.”

I nodded. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. Lucid was doing some heavy lifting.

“I'll take her,” Caleb said smoothly, arms folded across his chest.

The effect was immediate.

Like someone pressed a button labeled Mild Tension: Now Simmer.

Zayne didn’t look up from the data pad. “She needs medical supervision.”

“She needs peace and quiet,” Caleb replied. “And space.”

Zayne’s tone edged a degree colder. “Yes, well. Space is my specialty.”

And that was it.

That was the moment I realized I had walked into a full-blown Caretaking Standoff between a deadly sharpshooter and a terrifyingly composed neurospecialist with the emotional availability of a marble bust.

They weren’t shouting. They didn’t need to.

The testosterone was deafening.

“I've brought her in once already today,” Caleb said, voice casual as a trigger. “I think I can manage a few more steps to a couch.”

“While ignoring possible neurological trauma?” Zayne countered, not missing a beat. “How comforting.”

“I know her limits.”

“I know her brain.”

Okay.

Time to intervene.

I sat up straighter, willing my spine to perform under pressure. “I could just—uh—go with whoever's... closest?” I offered, voice high, smile brittle.

Neither of them moved.

It was like watching a very intense chess match, except the pawns were my internal organs and the grand prize was me.

And then—

“Hey, you're still alive!”

A voice burst through the shuttle doors like sunlight cracking through a hangover.

Tara.

She strode in like chaos incarnate—dark eyes wide, bobbed brown hair half-tucked under her gear hood, fringe spiking from static.

My entire body lifted.

Tara.

Friend. Game character. Comic relief. One of the few people I knew wouldn’t overanalyze if I tripped over my own existence.

I stood too fast. Wobbled.

Then pointed a slightly trembling finger at her, full of righteous, cliff-dangling dramatic flair.

“Tara will take me home.”

The room paused.

Zayne raised a brow.

Caleb’s jaw flexed.

Tara blinked. “Uh, I mean—sure?” she said, stepping inside like someone had just invited her to a surprise talent show. “I'm heading to HQ anyway. I don't mind a detour.” She beamed. “You can crash in my bunk if you want. Still smells like those vanilla wax tablets you made me smuggle.”

I nodded furiously, already moving toward her like a baby duck who had just imprinted on survival.

“Perfect,” I said. “Yes. Wax tablets. Love those. Let's go.”

Behind me, Caleb exhaled through his nose. Barely audible. Not quite a sigh. Not quite approval.

Zayne clicked his stylus against the screen.

“Monitor her,” he said, still not looking up. “Any sign of nausea, confusion, disorientation—call me immediately.”

Tara gave a lazy salute. “Roger that, Doc.”

And just like that, we were out.

The air outside was cool and sharp—like the aftermath of something you didn’t want to name. The terrain stretched wide and broken, shadows crawling where the light hadn’t returned. Above us, stars blinked faintly through thinning clouds.

Tara looped an arm around my waist, steady and casual.

She didn’t question the clinginess. Just matched my pace, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I nodded.

Not a lie. Not exactly.

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Sooo... you're gonna tell me what the hell that was, right?”

I smiled at her. Tried not to cry. And lied through my teeth.

“Later.”

T o b e c o n t i n u e d . . .

THE DOOR CLICKED...shut behind Tara with a chirpy, “Rest up!” and the second her footsteps faded down the hall, I dropped the smile I’d been holding like a tray of drinks that had overstayed its welcome.

One beat.

Two.

Then I doubled forward, bracing my hands on my knees, and let out a noise I can only describe as part whimper, part wheeze, part this-can’t-be-happening-to-me.

Because I’d done it.

I had successfully faked normalcy long enough to be left alone.

And now—I was alone.

In an apartment I didn’t recognize but was apparently mine. Sleek. Immaculately organized. Suspiciously dust-free. The kind of place that came scented like bergamot and quiet breakdowns. Stainless steel accents. Dimmable lights. Not a single dish in the sink.

I was standing in someone else’s life.

Someone composed. Someone capable. Someone who didn’t show up to their interdimensional apocalypse wearing bloodstained pants and one sock.

I stumbled over to the coffee table—real wood, glass top, coasters no one ever used—and collapsed onto the couch like a marionette whose strings had just been very politely severed.

A framed photo on the sideboard caught my eye.

I blinked at it. Once. Twice.

It took three full seconds to realize I was in it.

Me. Smiling. Positioned neatly between Caleb and Zayne. All of us laughing like we shared inside jokes and complicated history and the occasional brush with death.

Which, sure, might’ve been sweet—if it weren’t borderline existentially catastrophic.

Because I didn’t belong in that photo. Didn’t belong in this apartment. Didn’t belong in this story.

Not with them. Not here. Not like this.

I grabbed a throw pillow and clutched it like a life preserver. The silence pressed in, thick and padded, the kind that didn’t care how close I was to falling apart.

My legs wouldn’t stop twitching. My heart kept thudding like it was trying to get ahead of something. I couldn’t breathe without noticing how weird breathing had become.

I wasn’t panicking. Not yet.

But the runway was cleared. Engines on. Takeoff imminent.

I leaned forward, pulled the pillow tighter, and muttered, “Okay. Okay. Let’s think.”

Which was optimistic, really—considering half my brain was still screaming about Zayne’s jawline and the other half was building an isekai survival flowchart using crayons and fear.

I shifted the pillow to my lap and reached for the notepad I’d found earlier—tucked beside the bookshelf like a secret. Cream pages. Gilded edges. It looked far too expensive to be defiled by my nonsense.

Naturally, I grabbed a pen and got to work.

The Isekai Disaster Log.
Title at the top. Underlined. Bold. Possibly cursed.

Step One: Identify Method of Entry.
– Truck-kun? No.
– Fell into a book? Also no.
– Video game glitch? Closer… but there was no dramatic boss fight screen-suck.
– Summoned by higher power? Still pending.

I tapped the pen against my lips, trying not to think about how unhinged this all looked—sitting cross-legged in someone else’s apartment (mine, technically, fictionally), scribbling genre tropes like a conspiracy theorist with a soft spot for K-dramas.

Because that’s what I was, wasn’t I? A placeholder. In high-waisted pants.

Next Section: Potential Exit Routes.
– Defeat final boss → unlock return.
– Earn true love → reset cycle.
– Regain original body → body-swap reversal.
– Die → classic dramatic reset (not ideal).
– Confess truth → universe implodes?

That last one I underlined three times. Then drew a skull. Then a frowny face. It made me feel slightly better.

I tossed the pen aside and flopped backward into the cushions, arms flung wide like a swooning opera widow. The ceiling stared back—matte, pale, too sleek to be real. Probably had hidden heating vents and mood lighting triggered by emotional instability.

I blinked.

“Okay,” I said to no one. “Let’s say this is an isekai. Let’s say I got pulled into the body of the character I’ve played for years. Let’s say I’ve overwritten her like some cursed save file from hell.”

I sat up again—faster than necessary—and seized the notepad like it had personally offended me.

New Heading: Ethical Implications.
– I stole her life.
– I stole her wardrobe.
– I stole her contact list, her unread messages, and—oh my god—I stole her men.
– Her SSRs.
– Her entire five-year romance arc with the most devoted, animated, emotionally generous love interests ever coded.

I scrawled across the page:
I AM THE PROBLEM. IT’S ME.

Taylor Swift would be ashamed.

Some small, rational part of me whispered, It’s not like you meant to. You didn’t hit “Steal MC Identity” in the settings menu.

But that part was quickly drowned out by a louder, nastier voice—one that sounded suspiciously like the YouTube comment section under a spoilery reaction video:

You’re ruining the canon.
They loved her, not you.
You’re breaking the story.
You’re just a fan with access.

My throat tightened.

I reached for the water bottle on the counter, then stopped. It wasn’t mine. Nothing in here was mine. Not the framed photos. Not the notes in my inbox. Not the half-unwrapped gift on the kitchen island with a tag that read:

Don’t open until tomorrow – C.

I didn’t even know if C was Caleb or someone else entirely.

The guilt settled in my chest like a paperweight—heavy, cold, polished by years of fandom, lore, and longing.

I was a reader who’d fallen into the game.

But I wasn’t supposed to edit it. I was supposed to cheer from the sidelines. Cry when the confession finally happened. Not be the one getting tackled mid-battle by Caleb or scanned under sexy-doctor scrutiny by Zayne.

I pressed both palms to my face.

What if I couldn’t leave? What if this wasn’t temporary?

What if I was stuck here forever—playing the part of a woman who had earned every bit of love this world gave her, while I just flinched every time someone touched my shoulder?

My hands dropped. I stared at the notepad.

Pages torn. Corners dog-eared. Ink smudged by my own uncertainty.

A new plan began to form.

Not an exit strategy. That wasn’t coming anytime soon.

But a coping mechanism. A survival guide. A soft reboot.

If I couldn’t leave—if I was here for the long haul—then I would be so nice. So harmless. So deeply inoffensive that if the real MC ever came back, she’d look at my log of wholesome side quests and say: Wow. You really took care of my save file.

I nodded to myself. Out loud.

“I’ll smile more,” I told the wall. “I’ll bake muffins for Caleb, even if I nearly die turning on a space-age oven.”

And above all?

I would say nothing.

Not one syllable. Not a single whisper about who I really was.

Because this world had rules.

And I had read enough manhwa to know exactly what happens when you break them.

Best-case scenario? Narrative collapse.
Worst-case? A tear in reality. Everyone dies.
Caleb cries. The End.

So I was going to be good.

Like, really good.

I was going to smile at everyone like I’d graduated top of my class at the Hunter’s Association Charm Academy. I’d say things like “great teamwork” and “thank you for your service” with such radiant sincerity that even Zayne would log it as medically viable.

I’d become the kind of woman people described as “so lovely” and “just a joy” and maybe even “strangely polite given the circumstances.”

With that sacred vow in place, I folded the notepad shut, gave a resolute little nod, and stood.

Immediately tripping over my own foot on the way to the sink.

Because grace, it seemed, was not included in my starter kit.

Still, I rinsed my face. Brushed out the knots in my hair with something called an ionizing detangler. Changed into a pair of sweatpants I prayed were actually mine and not something the real MC had once emotionally bonded with. Every motion was deliberate. Precise. Good girl on her best behavior.

I was going to pass for normal if it killed me.

Which, frankly, it still might.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Polite. Almost apologetic.

I froze mid-sip from a pastel mug that read: Hunters Do It Better.

One gentle knock. Then another.

A beat. Then—

“Your lights are still on.”

The voice was deep. Calm. The kind of voice you’d hear during a power outage and just trust. Familiar, too—like velvet cut with steel.

I crept toward the door like it might bite.

Then—

“It’s Xavier.”

My entire soul left the chat.

No. No-no-no-no—

Because Caleb and Zayne coexisting in the same timeline made sense.

But Xavier?

The quiet, lethal sniper with the voice of a lullaby and a gaze that could skewer you into next week?

That meant—

Oh god.

That meant they were all here. All of them.

Not spaced out by chapter unlocks. Not split across plot branches. All. Together. In canon proximity.

I flung the door open more out of panic than purpose.

Xavier stood there like a moodboard come to life—hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair slightly tousled, expression unreadable. One hand in his pocket. The other holding—

A thermos.

He blinked, slow and unbothered.

“I saw your lights.”

I nodded. Then realized I was nodding like a socially anxious bobblehead and stopped.

“I—yeah. Lights.” I cleared my throat. “They’re… on.”

Another blink. Another pause.

Then, tilting his head just slightly:

“You okay?”

Which, to be fair, was a complicated question.

Physically? Fine. Mentally? A patchwork quilt of anime tropes and impostor syndrome. Spiritually? Somewhere between “lost in a cutscene” and “actively dodging God’s gaze.”

“I’m great,” I lied. “Perfect, even.”

He gave a small nod—slow, deliberate, as if filing the answer away in a database for later review.

Then he held out the thermos.

“Chamomile.”

My brain short-circuited.

Because nothing in the romance route prep guides—nothing in the character notes or fandom wikis or fan-translated interviews—had ever warned me about this.

Not quiet night visits. Not sleep tea. Not the soft weight of care wrapped in a mundane gesture.

“Oh,” I said, brilliant as ever. “Thanks. That’s… nice.”

“I can stay.”

He said it without drama. Without loaded meaning. Just a simple, solid offer, like staying was something people just did when they noticed someone might need it.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Then, very, very dramatically—

Shut the door.

Because this world didn’t make sense.

Because if Xavier was here, calm and lethal and handing out herbal tea like it was standard field protocol—

Then Sylus might be next.

And Rafayel.

And if that happened?

I really would die. Right there. On canon soil. Of romance-induced heart failure.

From the other side of the door, his voice came again—low, steady, perfectly calm.

“If you change your mind…”

I didn’t answer.

Just leaned my forehead against the cool wood and whispered, half to myself, half to the devs:

“Fucking hell, InFold. Are you trying to murder me?”

I stayed like that for a while.

Just breathing.

Forehead pressed to a door that had no idea how high the stakes were. That didn’t care about timelines or fan theories or character routes or the logistical nightmare of making muffins in a kitchen where you didn’t recognize the knives.

The air on the other side stayed still.

Eventually, footsteps.

Not angry. Not impatient. Just quiet.

Xavier didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t knock again. He simply left—offering space like someone who understood the weight of silence and had no desire to fill it.

Which was kind, really.

And also maddening.

I peeled myself off the door like a sticker someone had given up on and slumped back into the living room, thermos still in hand. The tea was warm—floral, faintly sweet. It tasted like a lullaby I hadn’t earned.

I sank into the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Plain. Elegant. Ambivalent to my suffering.

“I’m in a dating sim,” I muttered.

It wasn’t a revelation. More like a Google Maps reroute: You are here, even though I’d known for hours because nothing around me had changed. Except here, the landscape was made of heartbreak rendered in high definition, elite military uniforms, and a doctor who looked like the human embodiment of a soft-focus lens.

And they were all in love.

Not with me.

But with her.

The one who belonged. The real MC.

I looked down at my hand—the same hand Caleb had held, Zayne had examined, Xavier had offered tea to—and curled it slowly into a fist.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered. “But I have it.”

So maybe I couldn’t fix it. Maybe I couldn’t undo the weird narrative tumbleweed that rolled me into this story. Or explain why no one could see through me. Or how I’d managed to fall face-first into the Super Bowl of boyfriend content without so much as a strategy guide.

But I could survive it.

One kind gesture at a time.

I would become the world’s politest interloper. The most considerate impostor. The human equivalent of a please and thank you wrapped in seasonally appropriate gift wrap.

I would make muffins. I would compliment everything. I would be so pathologically nice that if the universe did collapse, it would at least whisper, thank you for your service on the way out.

And I would say nothing.

Not to Caleb. Not to Zayne. Not to Xavier. Not to Sylus or Rafayel or anyone else who might appear in this dimension like it was just another Tuesday.

No world-breaking honesty. No selfish confessions. Just saintlike patience, passive support, and possibly chamomile-induced enlightenment.

“Okay,” I exhaled.

I curled into the corner of the couch, clutching the thermos like it held divine answers.

Lights still on. Ceiling still boring. Tea still warm.

“I can do this.”

Beat.

“I think.”

T o b e c o n t i n u e d . . .