He forced his breathing steady, counting the cracks in the café's tile floor—three near the trash can, one jagged line by the register—anything to avoid meeting her gaze. In the novel, she had a habit of dissecting people with her eyes, peeling back their pretenses like layers of an onion until only raw truth remained. The last thing he needed was for her to start digging now, before he'd even had time to orient himself properly in this world.
The barista called out her order—"Caramel macchiato for Lin"—and the name sent an electric jolt down his spine. Lin Yuhan. The kind of person who could dismantle a corporate fraud scheme before breakfast and still ace her quantum physics exam by lunch. In the original plot, she existed to provide the male lead with crucial advice at pivotal moments, then conveniently faded into the background. But right now, her sharp, assessing stare suggested she had no intention of following any script.
His coffee cup crumpled slightly in his grip. He needed to leave. Now.
But as he turned toward the door, his elbow caught the edge of a tray, sending a spoon clattering to the ground. The sound was too loud, too abrupt—like a gunshot in the quiet hum of the café. Lin's hand shot out, catching the spoon before it even hit the floor. She held it up between them, her fingers precise, her expression unreadable.
"You're not usually this clumsy," she said.
His stomach dropped. That wasn't a line from the book.
"Sorry," he muttered, reaching for the spoon. "Long night."
She didn't let go. Instead, her gaze flickered to the textbook under his arm—Advanced Microeconomics, the same one she'd seen him with yesterday in the library. "You're in Professor Chen's class," she observed. "Interesting choice for a finance major."
He froze. The original owner of this body had been a finance student, just like the novel described. But Professor Chen's class was notoriously difficult, filled mostly with grad students and overachievers. A forgettable side character wouldn't have enrolled in it.
A mistake. Already, he'd strayed from the path.
Lin's lips curved, just slightly. "You don't remember me, do you?"
He blinked. That wasn't in the book either. There was no scene where Lin Yuhan and this nameless side character had met before.
"Should I?" he hedged.
She released the spoon, finally, but her eyes never left his face. "We shared a lab last semester. You spent the entire time staring at your phone."
A lie. He knew it instantly. The original him had been diligent, quiet, the kind of student who sat in the front row and never missed a deadline. He wouldn't have ignored her—no one ignored Lin Yuhan.
She was testing him.
And worse—she knew *something* was off.
The café door chimed as another customer entered, breaking the tension like a snapped thread. Lin stepped back, her posture casual again, but her gaze lingered. "See you in class," she said, before turning away.
He didn't exhale until she was out of sight.
Outside, the city pulsed with mid-morning traffic, the sidewalks thick with students rushing to lectures. He tightened his grip on his textbook, mind racing. The plot was already shifting. Lin wasn't supposed to interact with him. She wasn't supposed to *notice* him.
Which meant one thing: whatever happened next, the story was no longer his guide.
It was his enemy.