Chapter 2: The Wrong Death
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 coughe, 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 a smile. "But now you have a chance, don’t you? With knowledge of the novel, you can change your fate."
Cherion paused. That... was true. In the original story, Cherion Hale’s life ended pathetically, but if he played the part differently, if he used his knowledge, maybe he could twist the script. Maybe he could actually survive.
But then he remembered the balcony. The fall. Philia’s poisonous smile.
He jabbed a finger toward The God. "Except it’s not the same script anymore, is it? That scene where I fell off the balcony, that wasn’t in the book."
The God coughed again, looking suddenly fascinated by the void’s floor. "...Ah. Yes. Well. About that. You see... once a new soul enters a world, sometimes the narrative can... adjust. To, er, accommodate your choices."
"Adjust?" Cherion repeated flatly.
"Yes."
"As in: the plot can go off-rails?"
The god’s sheepish smile said everything.
Cherion opened his mouth, a dozen furious questions lining up on his tongue. But he never got the chance to say them.
A flick, light as a finger tapping his forehead, snapped through him. His words died in his throat as a strange pressure coiled around his chest.
The God’s voice rang out, far too casual for the circumstances. "Go on now. Live your life."
"WAIT... STOP! DON’T YOU DARE!" Cherion’s voice cracked into a scream as the pull grew unbearable, his body dissolving into motion, flung far, far away....
And then he was gone.