"Look at him. He must be so shocked he can’t even move or say anything."

"Of course he is. That pitiful Omega’s only hope of survival was being the Crown Prince’s fiancé."

"The king might pity him. Or he might throw him away like the useless thing he is."

"But honestly, Lord Philia is far more suitable for His Highness. Pure, kind, beautiful. Compared to Cherion..."

The voices wouldn’t stop. They circled him as if his silence gave them some sick pleasure.

Cherion rubbed his eyes. The bright lights above him were blinding. The two decorative chandelier lights above him were bouncing on the walls and ceiling, creating a starlight effect in all directions. Also, there were between 100 or more individuals in this room looking at Cherion as he stood in the center, dressed in heavy silks and stiff brocade, collars too high, sleeves too fancy for any normal gathering.

Cheiron rubbed his eyes again.

Where the hell was he?

Everybody was keenly watching him. For a brief moment, Cherion wondered if he was dreaming of an expensive historical drama as their lips moved in silent cruelty. He half expected a director to yell "Cut!" and for someone to shove a mic in his face.

But then....

"Cherion, are you even listening to me?"

And then one voice cut through the rest.

Cherion glanced in its direction and promptly forgot how to breathe, not out of fear this time, but because whoever was speaking was unfairly beautiful.

There was another man standing right next to him. Perhaps younger, with softer features. Pretty like porcelain left out in the heat too long, starting to crack where no one could see. But his soft smile didn’t reach his eyes.

The younger one touched the handsome one’s arm and said, almost in a whisper, "Your Highness, perhaps he’s in shock. After all... breaking off an engagement like this without warning..."

"Wait." Cherion lifted his hand, his brows pinched. His mouth worked faster than his brain. "What engagement? With you?"

He pointed straight at the handsome shining man.

Everyone in the hall gasped in shock. One or two of the guests even dropped a glass onto the floor when Cherion opened his mouth to speak.

The golden-haired man, whom Cherion assumed was royalty, had just snorted.. "Fine," he said with thin patience. "Since you’re having trouble listening tonight, I’ll say it again."

It was the kind of voice that could win over a nation or choke the life out of it.

"I, Prince Yerel Darrath of the Glorian Empire, officially annul my engagement with you, Cherion Hale. From this moment on, you’re no longer my fiancé."

He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the porcelain man’s wrist, pulling him in like he was showing off something he’d just claimed. "Philia is the one for me."

His ears buzzed, not with grief but with the sick punch of recognition.

Philia. Yerel. Cherion.

These names weren’t random. He knew them all too well.

Cherion looked down at himself. He was wearing this ridiculous coat, embroidered like a costume. It was all embroidered like a costume. Lace scratched his wrists. He had his boots polished to an absurd sheen. His stomach turned in an instant.

This scene. This moment.

And then it clicked.

"Oh no," he whispered. His hand flew up to cover his mouth. His eyes went wide, wild, as he stared at the two men before him. It wasn’t heartbreak, but a sheer horror.

The others mistook it for delayed grief. Yerel raised a brow, smirking. "I guess a delayed reaction, but finally the shock hits you," he said.

No. Cherion wanted to scream. This had nothing to do with being shocked over a stupid engagement. This was way worse than that.

Because he knew exactly where he was.

This was the beginning Chapter of that smutty omegaverse novel he’d read a few years ago because it had a character with his name. The one where "Cherion Hale," the pathetic cannon-fodder Omega fiancé, was dumped by the Crown Prince, Yerel, in favor of the pure, gentle Philia and then quietly erased from the story.

And now?

He was inside it.

Cherion’s breath stuttered. He needed to leave before the entire scene consumed him.

"Fine," Cherion suddenly blurted out, the tone of his voice more aggressive than he’d planned.

Yerel’s expression flickered. "What?"

Cherion blinked back at him. "I said fine. I heard you. You’re breaking the engagement? Okay. Fine. What, are you deaf now?"

The crowd’s whispers intensified, crashing like waves against Palace’s marble walls.

"How dare he speak so rudely to His Highness like that."

"Well, can you blame him? He’s being discarded in front of everyone."

Cherion managed a smile. Or something close to one. His legs wanted to give out, but his mouth moved first. His head tipped, just slightly, the way you’d nod at a waiter who’d gotten your order wrong.

What did Yerel think would happen? That he would cry and cling to his boots and beg him not to replace him? Being pathetic wasn’t his style. He gladly let Philia play the weeping heroine if he wanted to.

"Enjoy your drama," Cherion said, turning before they could respond.

His legs were shaking beneath him with every step, but he never hesitated to keep going.

He shoved past through the crowd, ignoring the hissing and whispering, made it to the balcony, and finally out into the fresh air.

The cool breeze hit him like a slap across the face. It was so refreshing.

At last, his body gave in. He leaned against the stone railing and began to shake again as he started to look up at the tall window.

And there he was.

The reflection staring back wasn’t really him. The reflection staring back wasn’t his. Pale hair, too perfect to be natural. Blue eyes polished like glass marbles. A face powdered smooth until it stopped looking human. He looked like a showroom mannequin for God’s sake.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

He slapped his own cheek so hard that the sting spread across it.

"Oh, brilliant." He winced, rubbing at it. "So it’s not a dream. Fantastic. Just fantastic."

He needed a plan and a way to slip from this cursed narrative.

But before he could gather his thoughts, footsteps approached.

Cherion turned.

Philia stood in the doorway. His features were soft and his eyes glimmered as if they contained unshed tears. His smile, though, was carefully painted.

"Is everything all right?" Philia asked softly, walking toward him. "I wanted to make sure you’re... well."

Cherion just stared at him. He couldn’t speak, the words were stuck in his throat.

In front of him was the novel’s protagonist Omega, the perfect one who replaced Cherion.

Something twisted in Cherion’s stomach. It was neither jealousy nor pain, but the cruel knowledge that the plot had already begun.

Before he could say anything, the smile on Philia’s face faded. Philia suddenly stopped smiling, and his smile was as quickly gone as wine spilling from a chipped cup.

"You know," Philia said quietly, "for someone so pitiful, you still act as if you are above me. Don’t you think it’s a little bit arrogant?"

Cherion blinked as he was caught off guard by Philia’s comment.

Philia stepped even closer to Cherion, and the quiet malice in his tone made it clear that Philia meant every word. "Do you think you were worthy enough to be with His Highness? Did you think that someone as unimportant as yourself could ever stand next to him?"

The smile was still there, only smaller and less enticing than the first time Cherion saw it.

As Cherion’s back met the railing, he felt himself grip the guard rail tightly with his fingers.

Philia’s previously sweet smile returned, even though it had changed into a brittle type of smile that resembled glass, but his eyes were filled with malice. He leaned in, close enough for Cherion to catch the sweetness of his perfume.

"You were never meant to last in his life."

And then Philia’s hand moved forward.

Cherion’s foot slipped. Then his stomach turned abruptly and sharply once more.

The world was tilted. It was too late when he reached for the railing.

As he fell, the wind roared in his ears.

Hold on... this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

His thoughts raced through the details of the story as he remembered them.

This was not part of the plot.

But the last thing he saw before everything went dark was Philia’s sinister grin.

Falling.

That was the last thing that he remembered. The thudding of air sweeping past his ears, the stone railing slipping from his fingers, the smirking face etched on Philia’s perfect face.

When Cherion opened his eyes again, he wasn’t broken against hard ground. He was somehow standing on a surface that wasn’t a surface at all.

A wide, endless horizon stretched out before him, soft and white, as if milk had been spilt across the world. But overhead, no roof, no blue, only colors that pulsed and shifted, pink to blue to gold, like a smudged mood ring.

He turned slowly, squinting.

"...Is this Ikea showroom?"

His voice echoed strangely, bouncing back at him with too much excitement, as if even the walls were mocking him.

It wasn’t heaven. He was ninety-nine percent sure heaven didn’t look like this even though he had never been to one.

"Ah, you’re awake! Excellent, excellent."

The voice boomed from everywhere at once, too loud, too dramatic.

Cherion flinched. "Who said that? Show yourself. And please, turn down the volume, you sound like a broken karaoke machine."

Something stirred in front of him. The colors coalesced and pulsed together, twisting, until a shape took form. A man, or at least a man-shaped thing, wearing a robe that changed from the texture of velvet to the appearance of mist. He had silver, or maybe white, or maybe uncommitted, hair, and his face glowed with the dull yet good looks of a person drawn by an artist with a bad work ethic.

Cherion blinked. "Oh. A cosplayer."

The figure straightened indignantly. "I am not a cosplayer. I am a God."

Cherion tilted his head. "Right. Of course. And I’m the Easter Bunny."

"I assure you, I am very much divine." The god cleared his throat, smoothing down the folds of his robe as though they were wrinkled.

"You sure you’re a God? Because you look more like someone who failed the audition for a K-drama lead and got stuck in cosplay instead."

He raised a brow. "Mortals always cope with humor. How quaint."

Cherion blew out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, let’s just say I believe you, then where the hell is this place, and why am I here?"

The god’s expression softened into something almost... guilty. "You are here because, well... there’s been a small mistake."

Cherion folded his arms, waiting.

"A mistake?"

"Yes, you see..." The god rubbed the back of his neck. "You weren’t supposed to die."

Cherion blinked once. Then again. "...Excuse me?"

"That heart attack of yours? Entirely unplanned. My new assistant was handling the mortal logs today, and well... he pressed the wrong button."

Cherion stared at him in silence, face blank. "Heart attack."

"Yes."

"The. Wrong. Button."

The God coughed. "It happens."

The bulb went on, and all the memory came back.

He was at his filthy apartment. His laptop sat on the wobbly coffee table, streaming the lottery draw. His heart raced as the numbers flashed out one by one.

And then his numbers. All of them.

The scream burst out of him as he leaped from the couch. He whooped, clapping his fists in the air, and danced around his tiny apartment in what could only be described in the most generous terms as a victory dance.

Weeks of bland broth and cheap noodles, all for this moment. He was rich and life was about to change.

And then the pain hit his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. His hands clutched at nothing, his knees buckling. His vision swam, black edges closing in fast.

When his eyes opened again, the lottery ticket, the noodles, the laptop, all gone. Instead, he was face to face with a lot of strangers in flowing robes, their gazes slicing through him.

Cherion’s mouth opened, then closed again. A dry laugh raged out of him, the kind you release when the punchline’s so bad you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. "Oh my god, you’re telling me my death was basically a clerical mistake?!"

The God brightened as though relieved Cherion understood. "Yes! Exactly that."

Cherion let out a short, humorless laugh. "Fantastic. So my glorious exit from life wasn’t fate, wasn’t destiny, it was some intern who fat-fingered my soul into the trash bin."

The God winced. "I wouldn’t put it so crudely..."

Cherion dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Alright. Fine. It was a mistake. But mistakes can be fixed, right? So undo it. Send me back. To my world. My real world."

He jabbed a finger downward as if that would help distinguish between here and home.

The god’s smile faltered. Not the bright, self-assured one from before, this one carried the nervous edge of someone about to deliver very bad news. He gave a low, awkward laugh. "Ah... well. About that..."

Cherion stilled. "...About that?"

The God cleared his throat. "Your death has already been recorded in the cosmic archives. Once it’s written there, it cannot be undone."

For a moment, Cherion just stared. Then his voice exploded into the air, sharp and frantic. "WHAT?!" His finger shot out accusingly, jabbing toward The God with all the fury of someone cheated out of the jackpot of a lifetime. "What kind of god are you? You let your intern kill me and now you’re telling me there’s no undo button?!"

The God actually stepped back, both hands raised as if warding off Cherion’s outrage. "Now, now, let’s not be hasty. Of course I didn’t simply abandon you. I’ve already provided... compensation. A generous one, I might add."

Cherion’s eyes narrowed. His voice dropped to a dangerous calm. "Compensation."

"Yes!" The God clapped his hands together, a forced cheer bleeding into the gesture. "A second chance at life."

Cherion blinked, waiting. Then his jaw dropped. "Second chance at life? In a novel?!" His voice cracked at the sheer absurdity of it. "You killed me by accident... no, sorry, your intern killed me by accident. And the best you can do is... shove me into some trashy omegaverse novel I once skimmed for laughs?"

The God looked mildly offended. "Trashy? That novel has millions of devoted readers."

Cherion threw his hands up. "I only read it because the side character had my name! Do you think I enjoyed slogging through fifty chapters of pheromone this and rutting that?"

The God coughed, cheeks coloring in a way that made Cherion wonder if gods did in fact read mortal novels.

"Anyway," The God said hurriedly, "you’ve already noticed the role you’ve taken, haven’t you?"

Cherion groaned. "The pitiful Omega. The cannon-fodder fiancé who gets dumped in public. Yes, I noticed. Thanks so much for putting me in that role. Truly generous."

The God gave him

"NOOOOO!!!!"

Cherion gasped loudly as he opened his eyes.

Before he could swallow it back, the voice tore from him. He leaped up, certain that he was still falling, his chest heaving and his hand clutching his ribs as if the next heartbeat could trigger another heart attack.

However, there was no wind or sky falling.

There was only soft fabric wrapped around him.

Rubbing his eyes, he realized that he was in a bed. Not just any bed, but the kind that belonged to someone whose shoes never touched the ground. It was freaking clean.

A canopy covered in cream-colored silk, with sheets so smooth they felt like they were criticizing him for every cheap sheet he’d ever owned.

Cherion’s gaze slowly rose and—hey, there was a freaking chandelier that probably cost more than his entire rent.

This wasn’t his apartment.

"Oh, hell no."

Cherion squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Still here. Geez...

The universe was laughing at him, and so was the stupid God. He was sure of it.

"Master Cherion!"

Without even knocking, a maid had come in. She hurried over to his side with her skirts swishing dramatically. She folded her hands anxiously, looking like the kind of person who would apologize to a chair for bumping into it.

She couldn’t have been much older than him, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She had to be Cherion’s personal maid.

"You’re awake!" she said, relief flooding her expression. "We were so scared when you collapsed. You don’t know how worried I was."

"Collapsed?" Cherion repeated.

He literally fell from the balcony and just collapsed? But now that he thought about it, there was no pain or broken bone or anything like that. Maybe God had done some of his miracles.

"Yes, Master. You were found fainted in the garden. Luckily someone discovered you quickly."

"Who found me?" He tilted his head.

The maid stuttered. "I didn’t know who. Only that you were brought in at once."

Cherion narrowed his eyes. Collapsed, found, brought in. No mention of being shoved off a balcony by the supposedly benevolent Philia. Which meant either the story had changed, or people were covering it up. Neither option sat well with him.

For one horrifying second, he wondered if he had actually died again. Maybe the fall had finished what the heart attack had started. But then he remembered that strange, shining man, calling himself God. The flick to the forehead. The command to live.

...Right.

Ugh, that incompetent God.

He let out a shaky breath. "Right. So I guess you’re really serious about this."

The maid frowned. "Pardon, Master?"

"Nothing!" Cherion said quickly, forcing a smile that probably looked more like he was in pain. Which, emotionally, he was. "Nothing at all. Thank you for your... dedicated service. But I’d like some privacy now."

She hesitated, clearly torn between obedience and worry. But finally, she bowed and left, closing the door softly behind her.

As soon as the door shut, Cherion shot out of bed like a man possessed.

He went straight for the drawers, yanking them open with such frantic urgency. Then the wardrobe. Boxes, cabinets, anything that might hold what he needed.

He wasn’t looking for clothes. No, those were garish, jeweled monstrosities meant to scream, "I have never experienced inconvenience my whole life." What he needed was something lighter, round, and shiny that could be traded for coins.

And oh, did he find it.

Stacks of gold coins felt cool against his palms. Necklaces that shimmered like frozen rivers in winter, rings heavy enough to bruise a knuckle. Jewels so bright they nearly blinded him when sunlight hit them just right.

Cherion’s eyes gleamed. "Oh... Where have you been all my life?"

A tiny, unhelpful conscience whispered in his head, You can’t do this. This is stealing.

But then he scoffed out loud. "Stealing from who? From me? This body is Cherion, and I’m also Cherion. Which means, legally, spiritually, and emotionally, this is mine."

Problem solved instantly.

He stuffed handfuls of gold coins into a satchel he discovered hanging in the closet, then the jewels, then the jewelry.

As he packed, parts of the story crept back into his mind.

Yerel, the Crown Prince with golden hair, was cruel and blessed with the kind of privilege that made consequences optional for him. Philia, the delicate little omega protagonist who had won his heart and in doing so, crushed Cherion. The engagement was broken, leading to the eventual execution for crimes committed out of jealousy.

Except that Cherion wasn’t jealous at all.

He was just annoyed. Deeply, violently irritated.

In the novel, Philia never harmed anyone, so why now? Was it because Cherion hadn’t begged, hadn’t wept prettily the way the original must have? Did refusing to grovel cause the plot to go, Cool, we’re freestyling now?

"Great," he muttered. "So not only am I stuck in a trash novel, but even the plot can’t follow its own rules."

All the more reason to leave as quickly as possible.

He closed the satchel tightly, took another look around the room, and concluded that clothing wasn’t necessary. Nothing here was subtle, nothing simple. Wearing any of it would make him look like a walking jewel box. Better to keep his plain white sleep shirt and trousers.

He stopped at the door, opened it slightly, and looked out. Good, empty.

Even though the sun was well up, a long corridor with lit sconces stretched silently in both directions. His heart thumping against his ribs, he slipped out. He moved as though the shadow might take him, pressing himself against the wall as each step echoed louder than it should have.

He let out a breath of relief near the corner. It was almost time for freedom. After just one turn, he would...

Thud.

He hit something solid, fell, and landed hard on his backside. Coins clinked inside the satchel, betraying him.

Groaning, he looked up.

And froze.

It was... Yerel?

But, no... no, not Yerel. The resemblance was uncanny, but the man in front of him was surely older. Same golden hair, though some was covered with silver now. Same sharp jawline, but no arrogance there. Robes heavy with embroidery. And an aura that pressed down like a storm.

The King.

Cherion’s stomach fell to the ground. Why did I have to run into the King now of all times?!

The man stared at him, stern at first, then surprisingly gentle. "Are you alright, child?"

Cherion blinked. Child?

The King extended a hand, helping him up with surprising gentleness. Cherion, still too shocked to refuse, let himself be pulled to his feet. His satchel nearly slipped from his shoulder, coins threatening to spill.

The King’s gaze darted from Cherion’s pale face to the bag. "I’ve heard about what happened. I came to see you. And yet here you are, hurrying through the hallway. Where were you heading?"

Cherion cleared his throat, but nothing came out. This man had an overwhelming aura as big as a cathedral. It seemed impossible to lie. On the other hand, it seemed suicidal to tell the truth.

Cherion swallowed hard and forced a smile onto his lips. "Y-Your Majesty," he stumbled and bowed his head. "Pardon me for... for running into you right now."

The King’s expression remained calm and patient, though his eyebrows lifted slightly. Cherion spoke quickly, stumbling over his own words. "I was just looking for some fresh air, nothing more."

Silence gripped him like a stone for a heartbeat. Every nerve in his body screamed that lying to this man was a death sentence.

Oh, really? Then off you go, Cherion.

How he wished that was what the King would say.

Then, to his surprise, the King laughed. "Fresh air? In this corridor?" He tilted his head in the direction of the long row of stone walls. "Why not the garden?"

Cherion went cold. His chest ached from the painful lurch of his heart. "Yes! Yeah, of course... the garden," he blurted out, trying to regain his composure. "That’s where I was going."

The King’s mouth curved in a way that was neither quite disbelief nor quite a smile. "Hmm. So why do you walk in the other direction?"

Oh my god, I have no idea where the garden is! The layout is unfamiliar to me! Please stop bombarding me with questions, I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack!

Of course, all of that was just inside his head.

He forced another tense smile, trying his best not to look like he wanted to curl up and disappear. "Ah... I must have taken a... wrong turn." His face stayed calm; he didn’t want the King to notice his panic.

After a moment, the King remarked, "It is good, at least, that you appear well enough to walk about after fainting earlier."

Cherion blinked, caught off guard. "...Yes?"

Cherion’s stomach knotted as the King’s gaze grew more intense. "Yes. Because I wanted to speak with you."

Cherion’s blood ran cold.

What now?

The King sighed, almost weary. Then he touched Cherion’s shoulder. "Come. Walk with me."

Cherion opened his mouth, but there was no protest. Just the quiet wail of a man whose meticulous escape plan had just fallen apart.

I just want to get away from here.