I woke up between chapters

The Calm Before the Rewrite

Chapter 2 – Seraphina Blackthorn POV

I locked up the office myself, the metallic click of the door echoing down the empty hallway like a final punctuation mark. Silence settled immediately after, thick and familiar. Being the last one out had become routine over the years—so common that I barely thought about it anymore.

I preferred it this way.

There was something comforting about empty spaces, about knowing no one was watching or waiting or expecting anything from me. The building felt honest once everyone else had gone home, stripped of forced smiles and meaningless conversations. Just concrete, glass, and quiet.

Outside, the city breathed around me. Neon signs flickered lazily, streetlights hummed overhead, and the night air clung to my skin with a chill that hinted at rain. I hadn’t planned on eating out—my fridge held enough leftovers to qualify as a meal if I lowered my standards—but halfway down the street, something twisted sharply in my stomach.

Not hunger.

Craving.

It came on suddenly, insistently, like a command rather than a suggestion. Fried chicken.

I slowed, frowning at myself. That didn’t make sense. I’d eaten earlier. I wasn’t even particularly fond of greasy food. And yet the thought of it settled deep in my chest, warm and stubborn, refusing to let go.

“…Fine,” I muttered under my breath, as if conceding to an unseen opponent.

The restaurant sat wedged between a closed pawn shop and a flickering laundromat, its sign half-burnt out and its windows fogged from years of steam and neglect. The kind of place that stayed open late because it didn’t have the luxury of closing early. The kind of place that didn’t ask why you were there or how your day had been.

Inside, the air smelled of oil and salt. Comforting. Familiar. I placed my order without hesitation, exchanged cash, and waited quietly while the staff worked behind the counter. No small talk. No questions. Perfect.

When I stepped back outside, the paper bag was warm against my palms, the smell seeping through and curling into the cold air. The craving eased slightly, though not entirely. I held the bag closer than necessary, like it might disappear if I loosened my grip.

The walk home wasn’t long. Fifteen minutes, maybe less if I hurried. I didn’t.

Instead, I let my steps slow, my mind drifting despite my best efforts. No matter how hard I tried to push it away, the novel followed me. Scenes replayed uninvited, characters lingering at the edge of my thoughts like ghosts that refused to be exorcised.

The heroine’s smile.

The academy gates.

The execution.

I shook my head, annoyed with myself.

“Get a grip,” I whispered.

But the story had already sunk its claws into me.

I passed rundown buildings whose windows were boarded up or shattered, their walls cracked and stained by years of neglect. Alleys stretched between them like open wounds, dark and narrow, littered with trash and the echoes of things better left forgotten. The city wore its ugliness openly here—no filters, no illusions.

By the time I reached my street, the air itself felt hostile.

It reeked of piss, desperation, violence, and lives that had slipped through the cracks and never climbed back out. Homeless figures lingered near flickering streetlights, some asleep, some watching. I felt eyes on me, imagined or otherwise, and instinctively quickened my pace.

I wasn’t interested in becoming someone’s opportunity tonight.

My apartment building loomed ahead, concrete and grim, its entrance barely lit. Relief loosened something tight in my chest. I reached my door, slid the key into the lock, and twisted.

Nothing.

I tried again. Still nothing.

“…Of course,” I muttered.

The lock stuck often. It was old, stubborn, much like everything else in this place. I braced my shoulder against the door and shoved. Once. Twice. On the third attempt, it finally gave way with a tired groan, as if protesting the effort.

I slipped inside and closed it behind me, turning the lock until it clicked.

Safe.

My apartment—if it deserved such a generous title—was barely more than a shoebox. One room, a narrow bathroom, and a kitchenette that could generously be described as functional. The walls were bare, the paint peeling in places, the air perpetually cold.

No heater.

No hot water.

No illusions.

But the moment I stepped inside, tension slid off my shoulders like a discarded coat.

This place was mine.

Here, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to monitor my expressions or filter my thoughts. I could exist without armor, without expectation. I kicked off my shoes, set the food on the small table, and ate straight from the box, fingers greasy, posture careless.

The fried chicken tasted better than it had any right to.

Afterward, I stood under the shower and let cold water crash down on me. It stole my breath, bit into my skin, sent shivers racing through my body—but I welcomed it. The shock anchored me, dragged me out of my head and back into myself.

Complaining wouldn’t change anything.

I dried off, pulled on an old, washed-out T-shirt that nearly reached my knees, and crawled into bed. The mattress was too firm, the springs unyielding, but it was familiar. Dependable. It didn’t betray me.

Sleep, however, refused to come.

No matter how I shifted or closed my eyes, my thoughts returned to the book. The villainess. Her anger. Her desperation. Her end.

There had been something wrong with it.

The way the world had turned on her so easily. The way her motives had been ignored, her pain flattened into cruelty. The way the story had demanded her death and moved on without hesitation.

I stared at the ceiling, heart heavy with a feeling I couldn’t name.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed its victory. My thoughts blurred, the edges of consciousness softening as the world slipped away.

I drifted off still thinking about the story.

Unaware that soon, I wouldn’t just be reading it.

I would be living it.