Tell me, how do you think you'll die? Maybe you'll die some poetic death that will be a story told through your family for generations. Maybe you'll die in some boring old way that nobody ever remembers.

Or maybe you'll die like me, in the most ironic and unexpected of ways: a freak accident where your beloved homemade bookshelf collapsed onto you and your first novel hit your head as hard as it could.

I laid there, dying from a combination of blood loss, being crushed underneath the weight of what remained on my shelf, and possible brain damage from that book I spent years of my life crafting crushing my damn skull in. And as I died, I saw my life flash before my eyes. Looking back on it like this, my life was so fucking boring as a story. Nothing bad happened. I had a nice childhood, grew up, and became a lawyer that moonlighted as an author. I always enjoyed having few people know who truly wrote my books, so I always went by the pen name Astrophel Fields. Sounds like a cool name, I know, but it's adapted from an inside joke from my college. I thought it was funny, and it stuck.

As soon as my life got to the point where I began writing my novel, The Fall of All, things seemed to slow. The Fall of All was like my child. It was a tragedy, where a young person goes completely mad chasing down the drug lord leader of a criminal organization that indirectly caused their father's death. I adored it and its concept, and I put so much work into it. My vision began to fade as I remembered the pure joy of finishing the novel until everything was dark.

… And then I opened my eyes again, and I found myself laying out on a bed... Was this it? Was I in Heaven now? Oh, how I hoped I was in Heaven, and not in Hell.

The thing was, the room I was in did not look at all what I would've imagined Heaven as. It just looked like a plain hotel room, with white walls and hardwood floors. The sheets of the bed I laid on were a light gray. It was just an extremely boring room.

I sighed as I got up and stretched. It was then that I noticed how my body felt… Strange. I was more overweight than I had been before my death, and my skin was rougher. I could feel a scar on my cheek. Maybe that scar was from where the book hit me? Though it hit me on the back of the head, not the cheek… Yeah, I have no explanation for any of this.

Out of sheer curiosity, I made my way to the bathroom. Maybe I could investigate what exactly happened to my body there, for privacy. I shut the door behind me, flicked on the lights, and stared in the mirror. The face that greeted me was not my own. Rather, it was a face with bright green eyes and black hair. Faint stubble was scattered on my cheeks, along with the aforementioned scar. I supposed I couldn't complain, as this solved a lot of my gender issues. And besides, I looked pretty damn hot.

Suddenly, a realization hit me as I stared into my own eyes. Wait. Hold on. There is only one other person who had black hair, bright green eyes, stubble, and a cheek scar.

"Oh my fucking God, I'm him," I sputtered out as I backed away from the mirror. "I'm fucking Sopherim, of all my characters!"

Sopherim was the name of the villain in The Fall of All. He was the man who created a new drug that was highly addictive and deadly and used it to build his criminal empire. I was him.

I bolted out of the bathroom and sprawled back out on the bed. What the fuck was I supposed to do about this? I went from a simple author who had a boring life to a powerful drug lord who's being hunted by a grief-driven 19-year-old in literally a blink of an eye!

I glanced over to the calendar on the wall. The date was July 6th, 2018. That means I had two days. Two days until that kid- who called themself the Vulgate- would find me and chop off my head with a fucking axe.

I groaned as I rolled over and tried to fall back to sleep. I still didn't quite know what to do, so instead, questions flooded my mind. Why was this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this? How could I find out?

Finally, one specific thought came to my mind: This is my story, and I can change it.

I sat up as I thought about this prospect. I was my villain, with all of the knowledge of the author. I could, at the very least, avoid the party that the Vulgate killed me at. And then, I could hatch a plan to dispose of them, once and for all.

It was time to rewrite my beloved novel, for my own sake.