Abducted into My Abandoned Novel
It had been a solid eight years since I started grinding as a web novel writer. Even counting just the completed ones, I already had five under my belt. Throw in the ones I dropped midway, and the number shot up even higher. Anyway, I had this unbreakable morning routine: checking the comments that piled up on my stories overnight. Today, like clockwork, I cracked my eyes open and reached for my phone first thing. Skipping it felt as gross as skipping a tooth-brush for days on end.
But something felt off, so I held back. "What the hell."
A weird sense of dissonance wrapped around me like a straitjacket, and the source? The smartphone clutched in my hand.
"Why's it so damn big?"
It was definitely my phone, but today it looked freakishly oversized. Like my trusty mini had overnight upgraded to a pro model. Nah, it wasn't just my imagination. Yesterday, it fit perfectly in one hand; now, it was a struggle to grip. Had we hit some tech singularity where phones got morning wood every sunrise? There was that update notification yesterday—should've just held out instead of installing it. What the fuck did Jobs do to my phone... Nah, no way.
Probably got swapped with someone else's without me noticing. I'd dashed to the convenience store mid-deadline yesterday—maybe then? The thought hit, and suddenly, visions of the porn folders buried in my phone's storage danced before my eyes. Those faithful companions I'd leaned on every night, or whenever inspiration dried up, now waving goodbye—or more like flipping me the bird, screaming you're fucked.
A man's dying regrets: two things you drown before you go. One might've just landed in enemy hands. My brain was already picturing some chick picking up my phone, peeking inside, freaking out, and bolting straight to the cops.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Cold sweat trickled down my spine. Calm down... Simple possession isn't a crime, right? Still, everyone would learn about my kinks. And that plain old web novel hack image? Shattered—turns out I'm a smut peddler.
No way it'd crack open. Apple was invincible; Jobs was a god. Unless the finder was some novel-tier superhacker, Pandora's box stayed shut. It had to. Right?
No matter how I spun it, paranoia gnawed at me. Like coming back from the bathroom during a game sesh to find your parents parked at your PC.
Screw the routine—first, track down my phone. I fired up this mystery device's screen. As it lit up from black, my thumb naturally drifted to the home button. No deep intent; other people's phones are curiosity catnip, but who leaves theirs unlocked these days? Pure muscle memory.
"Yeah, thought so—no way it'd unlo—"
Lock Released
"????"
It worked. What the actual fuck.
Mr. Jobs?
I tossed a mental plea to the one guy who'd know, but the dead stay silent. No reply.
Shocked, but hey, silver lining—this was what I wanted. Check for owner messages, call their contacts, text my number, sort this mess. Contacts were empty, though. Fine, chicken over pheasant—text my phone direct. Might be different owners, but self-preservation first.
Hit the messages app—and boom, incoming call. Unknown number. Not mine.
Does the owner know them? Borrowed my phone to call here? Worth a shot. I picked up, ready to bail if spam.
—You awake?
Not spam—spam would've led with sales pitch bullshit. Female voice, from the timbre. And real chummy with the owner. Voice dripping honey like that? Only for someone close.
Weird. I wake up pissed every morning; couldn't pull off sweet like that if my life depended.
Delight soured to dilemma. My hunch missed the mark.
What now... What to say without max embarrassment? Honesty it is—phone swap ain't a crime.
"Uh, well, y'see..."
Blunt "not your boyfriend" felt harsh, so hint first.
—You sound super confused?
No panic—just a cute chuckle, amused tone. What the shit. Prank call? New spam breed? Imagine the pivot: "Greetings, valued customer, your trusted partner in banking..." Would've been hilarious. Capitalist spawn of desperate telemarketers, or morning prank from a psycho bitch? Mid-ponder—
—Lee Yu-seung, born February 1995, web novel writer for 8 years, five completed works, 14 total including drops.
"Holy shit, chills."
What the fuck. How deep did my data leak?
"So, how much loan we talking? 100 billion?"
—Not a loan call.
"No insurance, not switching carriers."
—Hang up? You'll regret it.
Thumb hovered over end call—her voice froze it solid.
—Seeing beats hearing a hundred times. Bathroom. Now.
"Why bathroom? Bidet sounds good, but..."
—Just go. You'll see.
Her voice slithered in like magic, oddly compelling. Follow orders vibe. Scam artist with pipes like that? Even geniuses would fold. Grumbling, I rolled out of bed—yeah, that sold it.
Moment I sat up, reality cracked. Room matched mine: wallpaper, bed, bathroom, PC, furniture layout. All spot-on.
Except that door.
A door that sure as hell never existed, standing there bold as brass.
Mine was a bathroom-attached one-room—no other doors but front and bath. What the fuck? Wait... is this even my room?
Tension locked my muscles.
"No clue what's up, but I got no cash."
—I know.
"Then why the fu—"
—Kidnap you? Hearing my inner monologue manifest? Way creepier than imagined.
Also dawned: pissing her off? Bad idea.
—Smart cookie. Move it, then?
Voice rang like she read my mind. Gritting teeth, I headed to the bathroom.
"Bathroom."
—Mirror.
Mystery demand spiked fear, but I echoed her earlier line internally and stepped up. Eyes squeezed shut on instinct—this psycho kidnapper? No mercy.
—Eyes.
Short, heavy command. Cracked 'em open.
Mirror reflection hit... "...Insane?"
Had to gasp. Stunning creature stared back, wide-eyed in shock.
—Like the new body?
"What the fuck... this can't be..."
Brown curls brushing brows. Huge eyes with charm lines, perky nose. Killer: soft-yet-vivid red lips like fresh gloss, skin flawless like filtered perfection.
Thought girl at first. Prominent Adam's apple and crotch sway screamed boy.
Pretty boy. The word made flesh—mirror perfect.
I moved; it mirrored. Clicked: that's me.
"What the..."
Crashed out, woke in lookalike one-room—not enough? Yanked into stranger land, now pretty boy? Reality wilder than fiction, but this? Overkill.
"Dream."
Who dreams this? Buried plastic surgery fetish? "Cheap fix won't cut it..." Human hands couldn't sculpt this. Mesmerizing. "Pretty boy" coined for this.
—Not a dream.
Snarky retort, but dream confirmed—no more tiptoeing. Worst case? Nightmare fodder, forgotten on wake-up.
"C'mon, be real. How's this no dream?"
—Really think so?
"Wild. Lucid dream or what?"
Grinning, pinched cheek. Dream pinch test: no pain?
"Damn, squishy as hell."
Cheeks perfection too—like fresh rice cake. Stretched it.
"See? No pai—Ow!"
What. Why hurt? Hyper-real dream with pain sim?
Right then—
—Guess looking wasn't enough.
Sigh, finger snap echoed—
"Guhk...?!)
Agony exploded through me.
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Nothing breaks a man like pain. Truth I learned at 27.
Electric chair vibes—post-torture, no rebellion left. Just knelt before phone on bathroom floor. Fucked up earlier; time to behave.
Kneeling demure, I sorted her instructions.
"So you're... a goddess?"
—Yup!
"This world's... the novel I wrote?"
Wanted full polite speech, but she nixed it. Kneel yes, formal no—what logic? Her call.
—Precisely the one you abandoned.
"Ugh..."
No defense. Early days, dropped a few for cash.
"So kidnapping me 'cause..."
—Pissed me off, obviously.