1 Prologue

So there I was, checking my emails between one video game match and another, when I come across this gem: a guy wanting to turn my web novel, "The Returner," into reality. I laughed so hard I almost dropped my energy drink. Seriously, who needs fiction when real life brings these comedies for free?

I might have been in a creative hiatus, but this was too much even for my fertile imagination. Turning a novel into reality? What's next, unicorns in my backyard?

Of course, I didn't respond. Why would I waste my precious procrastination time on someone who probably thinks Hogwarts is a real place? Besides, playing with copyright laws and the laws of physics is more dangerous than giving a smartphone to a monkey. And as for being embarrassed to respond... well, let's just say I prefer to keep my madness at a socially acceptable level.

So, "The Regressor," huh? Not exactly a smash hit on the charts, but let's be honest, it was the hit of my humble one-man show. The biggest success since I started toying with typing words and calling it a career.

But then, like a good TV show episode that ends on a cliffhanger, came the hiatus. Five months of nothing. No inspiration, no words, no... well, nothing. Like, the creative void was so vast I could've rented out space for ads in there.

And why the hiatus? Oh, the old writer's block excuse. The muse had left me, and I was drier than a dad joke. You know when you stare at the blinking cursor and it starts to look like society's judging eye? It was kind of like that.

In the beginning, I was all fired up, writing as if there were no tomorrow. My analysis of the world? A little novella of 20,000 words that I spat out with all the love and tenderness of a summer romance.

But, like all internet hype, the excitement cooled off. A year later, and I was deeper in a creative crisis than an influencer without likes.

The story? Oh, it dragged on for a few more months, kind of like a zombie - you know, dead inside but somehow still moving. The plot holes were so many that you could use the manuscript to strain pasta. And the characters? They collapsed faster than morality at a political convention. Readers began to disappear like money in a gambler's wallet. And the comments? I'd rather face an army of internet trolls armed to the teeth than read that.

In the end, I did what any sensible writer would do: I took a hiatus. Like, a "went out for cigarettes and never came back" kind of hiatus.

But guess what? No matter how much time I spent playing video games or watching Netflix, the words just wouldn't come. Nothing. Niente. Nothing new under the sun.

And there I was, sinking into my own mediocrity...

Bam! Another email. "Hey, let's make your novel a reality." Seriously? If I had a penny for every time someone asked me to do the impossible, I'd be writing this from a private island in the Caribbean. But no, here I am, trying to turn coffee into prose while someone wants me to perform magic with a story that's deader than my social life.

This email lands in my inbox, coming from someone named deustodopoderoso@hot.com. Seriously? The address itself was already a stand-up comedy act. And the content?

***

"It may seem crazy, but in certain cases, only the mad have the knowledge of the truth... Accept that I turn your novel into reality."

***

Ah, of course, because I'm definitely the kind of person who trusts internet strangers with delusions of grandeur.

But then, the funny part: he wanted to turn my novel into reality. I almost spit out my drink. I mean, how often do you get an offer like that? It's the kind of thing you expect to hear in a bar after a few drinks, not in your email.

And what did I do? Well, I was so desperate for a bit of excitement in my life as a writer on hiatus that I thought, "Why not?" I wasn't exactly proud of my work - let's be honest, it was more of a midnight draft than a masterpiece. So, I agreed. Yes, I said yes to the lunatic in the email, kind of hoping he would surprise me. Grateful and embarrassed? More like curious and ready for the banter.

***

"So, was it that crazy email that messed everything up?" They say the chances of being struck by lightning are like, 1 in a million. But what's happening to me now? It must be something like 1 in a billion. Like, it's more likely for me to be struck by thousands of lightning bolts while doing a Thor cosplay on top of the Empire State Building.

So there I was, thinking I had hit my head or something, because seriously, waking up coughing up toilet water is not exactly my idea of a "good morning." And it wasn't just any toilet, it was a school toilet, which only added insult to injury.

I was expecting to wake up in my room, but no, the universe had other plans. I was in a school bathroom, and it wasn't one of those weird dreams you have after a night of too much cheesy pizza. It was real. Very real.

And then it hit me: I was not in my world. And I was definitely not "me" anymore. And no, I'm not talking about an existential crisis. I'm talking about a "I literally became a secondary character in my own web novel" crisis - one of those disposable characters who only show up to be killed by the villain to show how evil he is.

But guess what? The supporting character had already bitten the dust. And me? I had just taken over his body. Seriously, if this isn't a twist worthy of a Hollywood script, I don't know what is.

And so, I became Nam-Sam, the boy who entered the 'Academy for the Gifted Young'. A place where the 'Evolved' – lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you see it) kids who gained superpowers – learn to control their abilities and, somehow, try to be heroes. Because, of course, everyone with superpowers automatically wants to be a hero, right?

What was Nam's superpower? Good question. I had no idea. All I knew was that I had just been murdered in the academy's bathroom. And considering I didn't wake up inside a black body bag, I must have been killed just moments ago. After all, it's not every day that you find a guy with his head in the toilet and possibly dead, and you don't dial 191 to have the body removed and the suspects investigated.

When I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, I saw a guy with wet black hair, a face so average that even a polite girl would say "meh," and black eyes so generic that I could be anyone in a crowd. The only thing that stood out were my small pupils, like, "look there, he's got something different."

So, what is this? One of those crazy body possessions or transmigration? Totally irrational. I went to sleep as usual, but I woke up with my head in the toilet - and yes, I got it out of there faster than you can say "WTF."

First, I thought it was a tasteless prank, but then I remembered that I'm not famous and that friends are a strange concept to me.

Second, maybe this is real. And this strange feeling? It's like waking up and not knowing if it's day or night, or looking at a city lit up at night, or watching the sunrise after a night out, or driving in the rain. Yes, many examples, but that's it. Life suddenly became as full of possibilities as the menu of a gourmet food truck.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror as if it was the first time I was seeing myself. And, technically, it was, since I had just woken up in the skin of a secondary character from my own story. That's when I heard the click of the door and saw the silhouette of a guy entering, talking or grumbling on the phone: "man, Professor Helena's class is such a drag," The guy was as generic as me, like, if I described him to you, it would be a ctrl+c, ctrl+v of my own description.

He stopped midway, probably because the person on the other end of the line was waiting for a response and he was too busy staring at me as if I were an alien. There we stood, staring at each other, me with a look of "So, what's up?" and him looking like he'd seen a ghost.

After an awkward moment, he coughed, stepped back, and left, closing the door behind him. And then there was that silence, you know? That silence you only find when someone tells a tasteless joke at a funeral. Yes, that was exactly the kind of silence.