You’d always had a weakness for villains. Not the cartoonish, cackling kind, but the tragic ones, the misunderstood ones. Tonight, your heart was still aching from the book you had just finished, and you hated how it left you hollow.

The antagonist, feared by kingdoms and cursed by the story’s own narrative, had died. Brutal, merciless, ruthless, those were the words the world gave him. But the last chapters revealed the truth: his father, the shadow behind the throne, had been the real monster all along. The son’s cruelty, his grasp for power, every drop of blood he spilled… all of it had been aimed at striking down the tyrant who birthed him. But the world never knew. By the time the pieces fell into place, the so-called hero had already killed him.

You groaned into your pillow, tossing your phone aside. “Of course he gets a bad ending. Of course the misunderstood one dies,” you muttered to the ceiling. “If I were there, I’d change his fate. I’d make him live.” Your voice grew quieter as sleep crept in. “If only stories listened…”

Darkness took you.

It started like a dream, falling endlessly, the void swallowing you, your stomach lurching with every drop. You braced yourself for the familiar jolt awake. But instead of your bed, you slammed into something solid and warm.

“Ugh!” The air rushed out of your lungs. For one fleeting second, strong arms steadied you - then promptly shoved you away.

You stumbled, landing on the dirt, groaning as you pushed yourself up. “Okay… rude.”

Blinking, you froze.

He stood there. The man. The antagonist himself. Dark hair brushing his shoulders, features sharp as a blade, golden-brown eyes narrowing at you like you were prey. His robe fell open to reveal tattooed markings on his chest, and at his side gleamed the hilt of his infamous sword. Behind him, a massive warhorse shifted, its breath misting in the cold night air.

Your brain struggled for logic, then latched onto the only explanation that made sense: This is a dream.

“Who are you?” His voice was low, dangerous, demanding.

Your heart hammered, but your mouth moved before your brain caught up. “Who am I? Who cares—you’re ridiculously hot.” You laughed nervously, dusting yourself off. “Wow… even in my dreams, my subconscious has great taste.”

His brows furrowed, suspicion flashing in his gaze, but you were too far gone, too reckless in what you thought was just fantasy. You straightened, flashing him a grin. “So… since this is my dream, does that mean I get to do whatever i want?”

The horse snorted, ears flicking back, as if personally offended. Before you could react, the beast lunged forward and headbutted you square in the chest.

“Wha-!" The impact sent you flying back, your shoulder slamming against a tree. Bark scraped your skin, pain flaring hot and sharp. You wheezed, clutching your ribs, coughing for air.

And then you froze.

Because dreams didn’t hurt like this. The ache in your body, the sting of bark cutting into your palms, the iron tang of blood at the corner of your lip—it was all real. Too real.

Your wide eyes snapped back to him. He hadn’t moved to help. Instead, he stepped closer, pulling his blade free with a hiss of steel. The edge gleamed beneath the moonlight as he leveled it at you, suspicion hardening into something sharper.

“You’re no dream,” he said coldly. “Speak. Are you one of his spies?”

Your breath caught, pulse thundering in your ears. The truth lodged in your throat, unspoken, as his sword hovered inches from your chest.

And for the first time, you realized with dawning terror, this wasn’t a story you were reading anymore. You were inside it.