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My hands are shaking.
Not from fear—at least, not anymore—but from exhaustion, from the sheer weight of everything that has happened. The 19th scenario nearly killed me. My legs still tremble beneath me, my wounds hastily wrapped with torn fabric. I feel every inch of my body screaming for rest, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
This world isn’t kind to those who pause.
It’s been a few weeks since the scenarios started in Seoul.
At first, I thought it was some kind of elaborate hoax—another internet prank, a bizarre social experiment. But the blood on the streets, the corpses lining the sidewalks, the monsters lurking in the shadows… none of it was fake. None of it was a dream.
Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint became real.
I wasn’t a protagonist. I wasn’t special. I was just another survivor, clawing my way through each scenario, trying to stay alive. Others like me—other readers—had appeared, people who recognized the events unfolding before us.
I press my back against the cold wall of the alley, forcing my breath to steady. The stench of blood lingers in the air, the distant echoes of destruction ringing in my ears. The city around me is nothing but a graveyard of shattered glass and broken dreams.
It still doesn’t feel real.
Even now, after two weeks of surviving this nightmare, my mind refuses to accept it. The pages of Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint were never supposed to become reality. The tragedies, the horrors—I had read them from the comfort of my room, safe behind the glow of my screen. I had cried for these characters, ached for them, but I had never once believed I would stand among them.
Yet here I am.
A voice calls out from behind me.
"Excuse me—?"
My entire body locks up.
My heart stops.
No. No, that’s not possible.
I must be hallucinating. I have to be. Because that voice—that voice doesn’t belong in this world. It belongs to a character. To the story that had shaped me, haunted me, comforted me.
But then, I hear it again.
"Excuse me."
A shiver runs down my spine. My breath catches in my throat. My fingers dig into the torn fabric of my sleeve, gripping so tightly my knuckles turn white.
I tell myself not to turn around.
That if I look, if I see him, everything will break.
Still—still, I turn.
And there he is.
A man stands at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the dim glow of distant fires. His white coat, tattered and stained, drapes over his frame. His dark eyes hold a quiet wariness, his expression unreadable.
But even in the deepest darkness, I would recognize him.
Because for 551 chapters, I had lived beside him.
Kim Dokja.
A strangled sound catches in my throat. My vision blurs as tears swell in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them.
This—this isn’t real. It can’t be real.
And yet, he’s here.
He’s standing in front of me, flesh and blood, real in a way he was never supposed to be.
I can’t breathe. My chest tightens, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I try to speak, try to force his name past my lips, but all that comes out is a broken gasp.
My body moves before I can stop it.
One step. Then another. Then another.
Before I know it, I’m standing right in front of him. He watches me with quiet confusion, as if he doesn’t understand why I’m crying. As if he doesn’t know what it means for me to see him here, alive.
My hands shake as I reach out. Slowly. Hesitantly. Afraid that if I touch him, he’ll vanish.
My fingers brush against his cheek.
Warm. Real.
A sob escapes me.
I don’t care if this is a dream, a delusion, some cruel trick of the scenario. I don’t care. Because right now, he’s here, and that’s all that matters.
My hands cup his face, trembling against his skin. He stiffens at the contact, but he doesn’t pull away. His dark eyes search mine, unreadable, but I see the flicker of something—hesitation, confusion, something else I can’t name.
And that’s when I break.
A ragged sob rips from my throat as I throw my arms around him, gripping him as if he’ll disappear the moment I let go. My body trembles, my cries raw and unrestrained.
Happiness. Grief. Guilt. Relief.
I don’t know what I’m feeling anymore.
All I know is that Kim Dokja is real.
That for the first time in my life, I am here, with him.
"I—" My voice cracks, barely a whisper. "Dokja…"
He stiffens at the name.
I bury my face into his shoulder, my sobs muffled against his coat.
"You’re real," I whisper, the words slipping out between gasping breaths. "You’re really here."
His hand hesitates before resting on my back, uncertain, drawing slow, careful circles. It’s almost mechanical, like he doesn’t quite understand why he’s doing it.
Like he’s never been held like this before.
My chest tightens at the thought.
I cling to him even harder, my fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. The weight of every emotion I had ever felt while reading his story crashes down on me all at once. The loneliness, the pain, the sacrifices he had made—the weight he had carried alone.
I won’t let him suffer anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my voice raw and broken.
"I promise, Dokja. I won’t let you suffer anymore."
His breath catches.
For the first time, he pulls back just enough to look at me. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something hesitant and distant, as if he’s trying to understand me now.
As if I’m the enigma in this story.
"You don’t even know me," he murmurs.
I let out a shaky breath, a tear slipping down my cheek as I meet his gaze.
"But I do," I whisper. "I know you, Dokja. I’ve always known you."
His fingers twitch slightly against my back, but he doesn’t pull away.
And in that moment, I know.
This is no longer just his story.
It’s mine, too.