Chapter 2 – A Change of Plans
The subway rattled and swayed, carrying Chris through the underground veins of the city. He stood near the doors, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other still clutching his phone. Chapter 42 had ended on a cliffhanger—of course it had. The author was a sadist.
Just one more chapter, he told himself. Then sleep.
The train slowed, brakes screeching like a dying animal. His stop. Chris pocketed his phone and stepped onto the platform, joining the river of tired souls flowing toward the exit. The stairs greeted him with their usual hostility—too many, too steep, and always crowded with people who apparently had nowhere to be.
He emerged into the night air, cool and damp from the earlier drizzle. The streets glistened under the glow of streetlights and neon signs. His apartment was only fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes, and he'd be home. Instant noodles, maybe some leftover pizza, and another chapter before bed.
The routine was set. Comfortable. Predictable.
And yet…
Chris paused at the corner, staring at the familiar path ahead. His feet knew the way by heart. Left at the convenience store, straight past the laundromat, right at the old bookshop that somehow still survived in the age of e-readers.
But tonight, something felt different. Not wrong, exactly. Just… restless.
When was the last time I did something different?
He couldn't remember. Every day blurred into the next, a seamless loop of sameness. Work, home, novels, sleep. Repeat. Even his weekends had become predictable—grocery runs, laundry, maybe a movie if he felt adventurous.
Adventurous. He almost laughed. The most adventurous thing he'd done recently was trying a new flavor of instant ramen.
His stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts. Right. Food. He glanced toward home, then back at the bustling street behind him. A few blocks away, a row of small restaurants glowed invitingly—ramen shops, barbecue joints, a tiny Italian place he'd walked past a hundred times but never entered.
I could just order in, he thought. Like always.
But the restlessness tugged at him, persistent and strange.
Screw it.
Chris turned around, walking against the flow of commuters. A few people shot him annoyed glances—how dare he disrupt the sacred rhythm of the evening rush?—but he ignored them. Tonight, he'd eat out. Alone, sure. Sad, maybe. But different.
Different was enough.
The Italian place was called Bella Notte, which Chris suspected was either deeply romantic or deeply ironic for a restaurant wedged between a dry cleaner and a closed-down electronics shop. The interior was small, warm, and smelled like garlic and fresh bread. A few couples occupied corner tables, lost in quiet conversation. Soft music played from somewhere—an old Italian song he didn't recognize.
A waitress appeared, young, tired, but smiling. "Table for one?"
"Yeah," Chris said, suddenly self-conscious. "Just me."
She didn't judge, just grabbed a menu and led him to a small table near the window. He sat, feeling oddly exposed. When was the last time he'd eaten at a restaurant alone? College, maybe? Back when he still believed life would turn into something exciting.
He ordered spaghetti carbonara and a glass of water. Simple. Safe. The waitress nodded and disappeared.
Chris leaned back, watching the world outside. People passed by, faces illuminated by phone screens, lives unfolding in directions he'd never know. A couple argued at the crosswalk. A kid tugged at his mother's sleeve, pointing at something in a shop window. An old man walked a tiny dog that looked older than time itself.
Everyone has a story, he thought. Except me.
No. That wasn't fair. He had a story. It just wasn't interesting. No drama, no conflict, no stakes. If his life were a novel, readers would drop it after the first chapter.
"Nothing happens," they'd complain. "The protagonist is boring."
He smiled bitterly. Fair criticism.
The carbonara arrived, steaming and rich. Chris ate slowly, savoring each bite. It was good—better than instant noodles, at least. Maybe he should do this more often. Break the routine. Try new things.
Yeah, right. Tomorrow, I'll be back to noodles and pizza.
But tonight, he'd allow himself this small rebellion.
An hour later, Chris stepped back onto the street, stomach full and wallet slightly lighter. The drizzle had stopped, leaving the air fresh and clean. He checked his phone—9:47 PM. Late, but not too late. He could still squeeze in a chapter before bed.
He started walking, taking the long way home. No rush. The city felt different at night, quieter, almost peaceful. The neon signs reflected off puddles, creating ripples of color on the wet pavement. Somewhere, a street musician played guitar, the melody drifting faintly through the air.
For a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—Chris felt something strange.
Content.
Not happy, exactly. Not fulfilled. But… okay. Like maybe life wasn't so bad after all. Maybe the routine wasn't a prison. Maybe it was just… life. Normal, boring, ordinary life. And maybe that was fine.
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. Getting philosophical over pasta. Pathetic.
He reached a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. A few other pedestrians gathered beside him—a woman scrolling through her phone, a teenager bobbing his head to music, an elderly couple holding hands. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives.
The light turned green.
Chris stepped forward.
And then—
Light.
Blinding, searing white.
A horn blared, impossibly loud, tearing through the night like a scream.
Chris turned, time slowing to a crawl. He saw it—massive, unstoppable, barreling toward him with terrifying speed.
A truck.
Are you kidding me?
That was his last thought before impact.
No pain. Just force—absolute, overwhelming force—lifting him off his feet, sending him spiraling through the air. The world blurred, streetlights and neon signs smearing into streaks of color. He heard screams, distant and muffled, like sounds underwater.
Then silence.
Chris lay on the ground, staring up at the night sky. Strange… he couldn't feel anything. No pain, no cold, no warmth. Just… nothing.
Is this it?
His vision flickered, darkness creeping in from the edges. The stars above seemed impossibly bright, sharper than he'd ever seen them.
I never finished Eternal Cultivation.
A stupid thought. His last thought should've been profound—about life, regrets, dreams unfulfilled. But no. His brain chose novels.
Typical.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
[End of Chapter 2]