I stared at the letter in my hands, the bolded "Termination Notice" at the top mocking me. My fingers trembled as I reread the words for the fourth time, hoping they'd somehow rearrange into something less damning.

"Sorry, Martin," the HR lady said, her voice trying and failing to sound sympathetic. "It's the boss's orders. Downsizing in your department. Unlucky timing."

Unlucky timing? That's all she had to say for the years I poured into this job? I forced a tight smile and nodded. "No one's fault, Ma'am. I'll take my leave now."

She gave me a strained smile, one I'd seen before on people who were grateful it wasn't their name on the chopping block.

I walked out of the office, out of the department, and finally out of the building itself. The city streets greeted me with indifference, as they always did. Faces passed me, strangers lost in their own struggles. No one paused to notice the man carrying a letter that might as well be his death warrant.

What a life. Pathetic.

I sighed, muttering under my breath, "What now?"

The market wasn't far from my dingy apartment, so I wandered there. Stalls lined the street, crammed with everything from fresh produce to second-hand books. It was a chaotic symphony of voices haggling, children crying, and merchants calling out their wares.

Then, amidst the clutter of books piled on a rickety stand, a title caught my eye: Echoes of Agony.

Something about it called to me.. a strange, uncomfortable familiarity. I picked it up and ran my fingers over the faded cover, the title etched in jagged, metallic letters.

"How much?" I asked.

The seller, an old man with a face carved by time, squinted at me. "Four dollars."

I reached into my pocket, fishing out two crumpled bills. "I only have this. Will you take it?"

He glanced at the book, then at me. "Been sitting here for years. Never thought anyone would buy it. Fine, two dollars."

I handed him the cash and walked away, the book tucked under my arm.

My apartment greeted me like an old, tired friend. A single room with peeling wallpaper, a sagging bed, and a small table that doubled as a desk. It wasn't messy... I hated mess, but it felt hollow, like a shell with nothing alive inside.

I dropped into my chair and flipped open the book. The pages were rough, the kind that threatened to crumble if you turned them too quickly.

The story began in a burning village. A young boy named Agon, bleeding and terrified, begged the protagonist for help. A girl, Celia, clung to Agon, her blue eyes wide with desperation. The protagonist hesitated, then turned and walked away.

By the end of the chapter, both children were dead.

I closed the book and threw it onto the bed. My chest tightened, not from the story, but from the weight of my own life. Fired. Alone. Barely scraping by in this godforsaken city.

"Extras," I muttered, thinking of Agon and Celia. "Just tools for the plot. Meant to suffer and die."

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, its hum the only sound in the apartment. As I drank, I replayed the scene in my mind. Why hadn't the protagonist saved them? The boy was injured, sure, but the girl... She could've lived.

My throat tightened mid-thought. The water went down wrong, and I started coughing.

I staggered to the bed, clutching my chest. Each cough sent a sharp pain through me, and then, blood. Dark, crimson streaks stained my hands as panic clawed at my mind.

"It's just water," I rasped. "Why am I..."

The room spun, the edges of my vision darkening. I stumbled, reaching for my phone on the bedside table, but my fingers fumbled uselessly.

The world collapsed into blackness.

Whispers. Faint, distant, like voices carried on a cold wind.

"Agon... wake up. We need to go. Please, wake up."

My eyes shot open, and I bolted upright.

The first thing I noticed was the heat. Flames crackled around me, licking at the thatched roofs of huts that stood in disarray. Smoke filled the air, acrid and choking. My heart pounded as I scanned my surroundings. This wasn't my apartment.

I looked at my hands. They were smaller, calloused, but not my own.

"Agon! You're awake!"

I turned toward the voice. A girl with white hair and piercing blue eyes ran to me, tears streaking her soot-covered cheeks. She threw her arms around me, clinging tightly.

Celia.

The name came unbidden, slipping from my lips in a voice that wasn't mine. "Celia?"

She pulled back, her face lit with relief. "Yes, it's me! We have to go before they come back!"

My mind reeled. This couldn't be real. But the heat of the flames, the scent of burning wood, the weight of her arms around me, it all felt too vivid to be a dream.

And then it hit me.

The village. The burning huts. The girl with white hair and blue eyes.

I was in Echoes of Agony.

And I was Agon.

An extra destined to die.