Ever since I was little, I've always found the idea of fate to be utterly ridiculous.
If someone out there is really scripting my life like some cosmic playwright, doesn't that mean I have no free will? That every decision I make, every thought I think, every action I take—it's all just part of someone else's story?
A puppet on a divine stage.
I despise that idea.
If I fail, it's because of me. If I succeed, that too is mine. The credit. The blame. The consequences. They're all mine.
...Aah, sorry. Got a little carried away there.
Let me start again properly.
My name is Noah Lambert.
I'm just your average 25-year-old guy. I work as an online editor for a web novel platform—yes, the same one known for pumping out cringe-worthy isekai stories like candy from a vending machine. Nothing special about me. I'm not rich, I'm not famous, and I definitely don't have a secret magical bloodline or anything.
Life was as ordinary as it could be... until today.
Because right now, I'm sitting in my chair with a gun pressed against my temple.
Yeah. Let that sink in.
Click.
Cold metal. Sharp breath. Shaky hand.
Across me stood the man who would very likely become my killer.
Joe.
An author.
A rejected author.
Out of all the editors who voted to disqualify him from the platform's annual competition, he chose to target me. Not the lead editor. Not the guy who called his story "a dumpster fire soaked in gasoline." Me.
Lucky me, huh?
I had managed to send an alert to security and local authorities. But there was no way of knowing how long they'd take to arrive—or if I'd even be breathing by the time they did.
Joe was trembling. Twitchy. His face was flushed with rage. He looked one comment away from pulling the trigger.
"Why?!" he screamed, veins bulging from his neck.
"...You honestly don't know?"
SLAP!
His hand cracked across my face. Pain bloomed on my cheek.
Okay. That was deserved.
Note to self: maybe don't sass the guy holding a loaded weapon.
But the way his expression twisted when I answered? It was almost worth it. I think there might be something wrong with me.
"Why?!" he shouted again.
"Still don't know," I replied, deadpan.
SLAP!
Yup. Definitely something wrong with me. Maybe I enjoy this too much. Who taunts their would-be killer twice?
Still, I've always hated authors who couldn't take criticism. And this guy? He was a walking red flag. The kind of guy your girlfriend tells you not to worry about—and you don't, because he's literally the most forgettable man alive.
If this were a novel, Joe would be background filler. A side character. A mob. Hell, not even that—he'd be "passerby A." The type to get glossed over with one sentence.
And he actually thought he was special?
Maybe getting premium on the platform gave him delusions of grandeur. Maybe someone once told him his writing was "decent," and he decided he was the next Tolkien.
"Tell me why I didn't win?!" Joe shouted again, the gun quivering in his grip.
I raised my hands slowly, trying to diffuse the situation with a placating smile. "Look, Joe. I'm not the only one who voted against you. There were ten other editors on the panel."
"Tsk!" Joe clicked his tongue.
"Then tell me," he growled. "Why you didn't vote for me."
Why me indeed?
I could've given him the truth—that his writing was terrible, his characters flatter than printer paper, and his story was a Frankenstein monster of every overused trope imaginable.
But I liked breathing.
So I went with plan B: psychology.
"Okay, now listen—before I answer, remember this is just my opinion. At the end of the day, what truly matters is that you believe in yourself, right?"
Joe hesitated. Nodded. Good.
I continued, "Your writing quality was excellent, but the plot lacked depth. A few improvements here and there, and you'll be golden."
Lie. Massive lie.
His writing made my soul shrivel.
But flattery was my only lifeline.
"So how about this," I said, smiling wider. "I'll personally help you improve it. With your style and my guidance, we could win next year for sure!"
It took all of my willpower not to vomit at my own words. Comparing his writing to a child's would be an insult to children.
Then... something shifted.
Joe's expression turned grim. The air thickened.
"What... did you just say?" he asked, voice cold.
"Huh?" I blinked, caught off guard.
"I asked what the fuck did you say about my plot not being good?"
Oh no.
I picked the wrong thing to sugarcoat.
"I mean it's not bad, just—" I started, desperate to fix it.
"SHUT UP, NOAH!" he roared. "My story doesn't need fixing! It's perfect!"
Welp.
That's it.
This is how I die.
I could already hear the headlines: "Webnovel Editor Murdered Over Mediocre Plotline."
"You get it?! It's a masterpiece!" Joe raved, waving the gun around. "The characters were real! They showed me things you couldn't even understand!"
...Real?
What the hell was this guy on?
"Maybe you're the one who's forgotten what it means to be alive," Joe whispered, his eyes glowing with manic resolve. "But you will remember... if you go back."
The hell?
Back where?
"Casting Time Reversal and Parallel Timeline Rebirth will cost me half my life essence... but I'll make you remember."
Oh god.
He really was suffering from 8th-grade syndrome.
Before I could stop him—
BANG.
A shot rang out. A bullet tore through my skull.
My consciousness started fading.
The door burst open.
"This is the police! Open up!"
A second too late.
As my vision dimmed, I heard Joe's voice—calm, satisfied.
"This time... try not to die before reaching the end."
His body shimmered with white light, glowing brighter until it disintegrated into particles and vanished.
My mouth moved on its own.
"...Pre...pare... your... self…"
And then, darkness.
When the police finally breached the office, they found a young man slumped against the desk.
Dark hair. Pale skin. Sharp features frozen in shock. Identified later as Noah Lambert.
Cause of death: bullet to the head.
But the strange part?
There was no bullet.
No casing.
No gunpowder residue.
No fingerprints.
No weapon.
Joe—the shooter—had vanished without a trace.
It was as if he never existed.
But what Joe didn't know... what he couldn't possibly have foreseen...
Was that in killing Noah Lambert, he had made the greatest mistake of his life.