Chapter 6

Disclaimer:
This is a test chapter created only to check formatting on the blog. Nothing in this chapter is part of a real story. It simply exists to test spacing, dialogue, and layout. Any structured narrative, character consistency, or sudden world-building is purely coincidental and should not be interpreted as intentional storytelling.

Juan jolted awake, his eyes snapping open as his body tensed instinctively, breath uneven as if he had been dragged out of something deeper than sleep. For a moment, his mind refused to cooperate, caught in that hazy space between confusion and awareness, until color—an overwhelming, almost aggressive shade of pink—forced his senses into clarity.

Everywhere he looked, there was pink. Not just a little, not in accents or tasteful decoration, but in a way that felt deliberate, suffocating, and obsessively curated. The walls were painted in soft pastel tones, the curtains draped elegantly in matching hues, and even the furniture carried that same theme as if the entire room had been designed around a singular, unwavering fixation. His gaze drifted downward, only to find that the bed he was sitting on followed the same pattern, layered with neatly arranged pink sheets and pillows, trimmed with lace that looked far too delicate for comfort.

Juan paused, his expression slowly shifting as a thought caught up to him.

Wait a second.

He frowned slightly, the word forming in his mind with strange resistance.

“…He?”

The realization felt delayed, as if his body had already accepted it long before his mind caught up. Since when had that been the case? The question barely had time to settle before it was violently interrupted by a sudden flood of information that crashed into his consciousness all at once. It was not gradual, nor was it something he could ease into. It forced its way in, overwhelming and intrusive, filling every corner of his mind with memories that were not his own.

His body reacted before he could think, collapsing backward onto the bed as his hands came up to clutch his head, fingers pressing hard against his temples as if that alone could slow the torrent. Fragments of a life, of a personality, of a narrative he had never agreed to participate in, all forced themselves into place. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched as he struggled to process it all, his breathing uneven under the strain.

By the time he opened his eyes again, a thin sheen of sweat had formed along his forehead, and his chest rose and fell slowly as he forced himself to breathe. The confusion had not disappeared, but it had shifted into something far more dangerous—understanding.

And what he understood made him deeply regret waking up.

Apparently, he had a massive crush on his cousin. Not just a passing interest or mild fondness, but something obsessive, something rooted so deeply that it had shaped his entire personality. According to the memories forced into him, it had begun at the age of six, triggered by something as trivial as discovering his cousin’s favorite color. Pink. That single detail had been enough for this character—his current self—to reconstruct everything about himself in alignment with that preference.

Juan stared at the lace on the bed again, his expression flattening.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The room was not decoration. It was devotion.

Worse, the feelings were not reciprocated. His cousin, now inhabited by the so-called “author,” had no romantic interest in him whatsoever. Which, Juan noted with some relief, made sense given that they were blood-related. Unfortunately, that did not stop anything. Instead, this character had chosen a different approach—maintaining proximity by deliberately presenting himself in a way that would be tolerated, even indulged.

Girly.

Juan blinked slowly, the word sitting in his mind like a misplaced object.

“…What does that even mean in this context?”

The explanation offered by the “plot” was vague, illogical, and completely unhelpful. Somehow, by acting in this manner, he had managed to remain close to his cousin, operating under the belief that proximity alone would eventually lead to something more. There was even a term that surfaced in the memories—something about his cousin eventually being able to “top” him.

Juan stared ahead blankly.

“…I don’t know what that means, and I’m choosing not to learn.”

He rubbed his face, already exhausted.

“What kind of ridiculous setup is this…”

Then came another realization.

His name.

Juan.

He frowned, repeating it mentally before something clicked in a way that made his entire expression stiffen.

“…No.”

He went still.

“…There’s no way.”

A long pause followed.

“…It sounds like ‘One.’”

Another pause.

“…There is absolutely no way they did that.”

Before he could spiral further, the rest of the information surfaced, dragging his attention toward the second “Test Subject.”

Deux.

Juan let out a quiet, strained exhale.

“Of course it’s Deux.”

Unlike him, Deux’s character was everything this world considered ideal. Smart, rich, composed, and apparently categorized as a “top,” whatever that fully entailed. More importantly, he was the person his cousin—no, the author—was obsessing over.

The structure of the story became painfully clear.

The author did not enjoy straightforward narratives. Instead, he preferred tension, pursuit, and emotional resistance. Which meant that Juan’s role was not simply to exist, but to interfere—to create obstacles, to disrupt, to complicate the path between himself and Deux.

Juan leaned back slightly, his expression turning flat as the implications settled.

“So I’m the problem.”

Not just a minor inconvenience, but an active disruptor. Someone who would insert himself into situations, sabotage interactions, and even go as far as paying others to make Deux’s life more difficult. It was petty, excessive, and entirely ineffective, because no matter what he did, Deux would always come out on top.

Because, of course, he would.

He was the male lead.

Juan pressed the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.

“This is completely rigged.”

As if that wasn’t enough, all three of them lived together. In the same house. Near a school. No explanation was provided for this arrangement, nor did the memories offer any logical reasoning behind it. It simply existed because the author willed it to.

Seamless.

Convenient.

Completely nonsensical.

“…Great.”

After a moment of quiet resignation, Juan pushed himself off the bed and moved toward the door, deciding that the only reasonable course of action was to find Deux and assess the situation directly.

The moment he stepped out another door opened at the exact same time.

Perfectly timed.

Too perfectly timed.

He found himself face to face with his cousin.

Spire.

Spire let out a deep, tired sigh, as if merely seeing Juan was already exhausting.

Juan said nothing.

“Hi, cous. Good morning,” Spire said softly, his tone gentle, his expression carefully arranged into something pleasant. “Please don’t do anything stupid today, alright? Please?”

The delivery was flawless.

The intention was not.

Juan heard everything.

My cousin is gorgeous. Too bad he’s not my type, hmph. Still, he has to look outstanding if he’s going to hover around me.

Juan’s eye twitched… This stupid author. He frowned slightly.

“…” Spire, was it? The name felt strange.

…Did he really name himself that?

A beat passed.

…Well, it fits. He’s already spiraling.

Before he could say anything further, another door opened nearby.

Both of them turned.

Deux stepped out.

He looked exactly as expected—composed, put-together, effortlessly refined in a way that immediately distinguished him from everything else in this chaotic setup. His gaze passed over both of them briefly, lingering for no more than a second before he turned and began walking downstairs without a word.

Spire’s attention snapped to him instantly.

“Wait, Deux, wait for me!”

He moved after him quickly, his pace picking up as he tried to catch up.

Juan remained where he was, watching the scene unfold with a blank expression.

“…Wow.”

Spire reached the stairs.

Took a step.

Missed it apparently.

And in the next instant, his body tipped forward completely.

What followed was not a simple stumble, nor a recoverable misstep.

It was a full, uninterrupted fall.

The staircase was L-shaped, each flight consisting of eight steps, and Spire hit every single one of them as he tumbled downward, his descent chaotic and ungraceful in a way that directly contradicted the image he had tried so hard to maintain moments before.

Juan stood at the top of the stairs, watching the entire thing happen in real time.

“…What.”

And with that, Chapter 6 continued in a way that absolutely, definitely, and still somehow insisted it was not a plot.