Chapter 1: Side Character, Center Stage

So, turns out, getting tossed into a novel doesn’t mean you’re the star—or even get a single plot twist.

If only. Instead, I landed smack in the middle of someone else’s story, without a shred of protagonist luck. Just another face in the crowd. Or worse—a bystander, stuck on the sidelines, watching everyone else’s story play out.

I wasn’t the hero. I was just a bystander.

Not only did I miss all the juicy drama, but in the end—I mean, I was literally torn apart.

Seriously, talk about drawing the short straw. While everyone else was busy falling in love or getting rich, my fate was to become cannon fodder, chewed up and spit out by the plot.

One day in the apartment hallway, I looked up—and locked eyes with the guy—the one who, in the story, was supposed to kill me.

My stomach twisted. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting weird shadows on the peeling wallpaper. I was hugging a grocery bag to my chest, minding my own business, when I saw him coming down the hall—the boy from the worst chapter of my story.

The infamous psycho—Nathan Calloway. Yeah, that Nathan.

Just hearing his name gave me goosebumps. He was the kind of guy whose reputation spread like wildfire in small apartment complexes and high school cafeterias alike. Even the old ladies who gossiped on the stoop would lower their voices when they mentioned him.

Honestly, I freaked out a little. No shame.

He’s out of juvie?

I instinctively pressed myself against the wall, giving up my spot by the railing.

My heart hammered. The metal railing was ice against my back. I watched him approach, every muscle tense. Just waiting—for something. Anything.

His gaze lingered on me for three seconds.

Three long, suffocating seconds. I counted them in my head, trying not to blink. His eyes were flat, unreadable, like he was looking right through me.

Then he just walked past.

No words. No threat. Just the heavy thud of his boots echoing down the hallway as he disappeared around the corner.

Even after his footsteps faded, I was too shaken to move. For the first time, I felt fear deep in my bones.

The kind of fear that crawls up your spine and makes you forget how to breathe. I stood there, frozen, my mind whirring with a thousand what-ifs. I’d seen enough true crime documentaries to know how these stories ended, and none of them were good.

I’d only ever seen murderers on Dateline or in thrillers. Even after landing in this world and knowing the future, I’d never really felt it.

It’s one thing to watch a story unfold from the safety of your couch. It’s another to realize you’re living in it, and the killer’s just a few doors away. Suddenly, every creak in the hallway sounded suspicious.

Deep down, I always thought there’d be a thousand ways to avoid a deadly ending.

I mean, how hard could it be to stay alive if you knew the plot ahead of time? I’d imagined dodging danger with clever tricks, like some side character with plot armor. But now, my confidence was cracking.

Until today…

Damn. Should’ve moved out ages ago. Why didn’t I listen to myself?

Why hadn’t I listened to my own advice? The rent was cheap, but was it worth risking my life for a few extra bucks each month?

I silently regretted it. Living down the hall from a killer was seriously testing my nerves.

Every time I heard footsteps on the stairs, I’d tense up. Even the sound of a neighbor’s TV through the wall made me jumpy. I kept replaying that hallway encounter, wondering if he’d noticed the fear in my eyes.

I’d planned burgers with my best friend today. So much for that. I pulled out my phone to break the news and cancel. Sure enough, she wailed on the other end.

She let out a dramatic groan—loud enough to startle the cat, I swear. “Girl, you promised! You can’t bail on me for some creep upstairs!” I muttered an apology, my voice thin, and promised we’d reschedule soon.

I hung up and headed home.

I lived on the sixth floor; Nathan Calloway lived on the seventh.

Which meant every trip up the stairs was a gamble. I always paused to listen for footsteps before climbing, like a kid playing hide-and-seek in a haunted house.

Afraid of running into him again, I poked my head around the railing and looked up—

I held my breath, eyes darting for any sign of movement. The stairwell was dim, the kind of lighting that made every shadow look suspicious.

And once again, I met a pair of cold, indifferent eyes.

Nathan was standing by the seventh-floor railing, his hoodie pulled low, looking down at me with no expression.

He looked like he’d been carved out of stone, unmoving, his hands tucked into his pockets. The way he stared made me feel like a bug under a microscope.

A chill shot up from my feet to my scalp. My heart pounded like a drum, and I knew my face must have gone ghostly pale. My brain short-circuited, and I forced out a smile.

I must have looked like I was about to pass out. My lips stretched into a shaky grin, desperate to look casual.

"No one home?"

The moment I spoke, I wanted to slap myself.

Seriously, Emily? Why make small talk with the psycho who’s going to kill me? Did I have a death wish?

To my surprise, he just pressed his hood lower and gave a quiet, "Yeah."

His voice was barely more than a whisper. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or just didn’t care. Either way, it made my skin crawl.

Under his gaze, I didn’t dare go home. I stiffly went downstairs instead. At the corner store, I bought a bottle of water and loitered for ages, just to avoid running into Nathan. The clerk started giving me wary, sharp looks.

I wandered the snack aisle, reading labels I’d memorized years ago, pretending to debate between chips and trail mix. The clerk—a guy with a mustache and tired eyes—watched me like I was about to shoplift.

I pretended not to notice.

I even made a show of checking my phone, as if waiting for someone. The minutes dragged on, each second heavier than the last.

Eventually, my mom called to ask why I hadn’t come home from "burgers." Just then, Mrs. Carter from across the hall came out to buy ice cream. I chatted with her as we walked back.

Mrs. Carter was the kind of neighbor who always wore house slippers and smelled faintly of lavender. She asked about my classes and gossiped about the building’s leaky pipes as we made our way upstairs.

Mrs. Carter’s daughter married a cop—Officer Logan. They were always busy, so Mrs. Carter, retired now, watched her grandson at home.

She’d show me pictures of her grandson, little Bobby, every chance she got—usually right before offering me a cookie or asking if I’d heard any news from upstairs.

When we reached the sixth floor, I glanced up, acting casual.

Nathan was gone. Maybe he’d gone inside, or maybe he’d already left…

I let out a faint sigh of relief.

My shoulders slumped. It felt like I’d been holding my breath for hours. For once, I was grateful for the noisy pipes and the sound of Mrs. Carter humming down the hall.

The moment I stepped inside, my mom started in on me. Oddly, I didn’t find it as annoying as usual—actually, I felt oddly at peace.

She was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in soapy water. Her voice echoed off the linoleum as she listed everything I’d done wrong that week. But for some reason, it felt almost comforting—like home.

This world isn’t just some simple web novel; every character is a living, breathing person.

It hit me then: these weren’t just names on a page. The people around me laughed, cried, worried, and hoped. They had their own lives, their own struggles.

When I first landed here, I thought it was just some parallel universe. Some names sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them, so I let it go.

It was like déjà vu on steroids. Every so often, a name or a face would tug at my memory, but I brushed it off—until the plot came crashing in.