Anxiety prickles just underneath his skin, flooding his bloodstream with adrenaline. Kellen can see his living room start to spin, all wooden furniture gifted by beastmen and humans and priests that are more just gullible RPG NPCs than they are human to him at this point.

The cause of his woes? The letter on his coffee table.

There's a fucking Chosen One. Really? He really didn't want to take the role of the hero that saves the world because, realistically, there's no way he's saving the world when he's severely deprived of melanin and he's got the muscle mass of a pigeon. Maybe Kellen would've just done it anyway and died trying, because that really sounds like a lot better than the way he's agonizing over the fact that he's probably so screwed that it's not even funny anymore.

No 4Chan forums to post on complaining about the whole situation or else he gets exposed as a fraud. A fake. This supposed hero as foretold in the 500-Year-Old Sage's Prophecy (also trademarked) is definitely another guy who's probably from Earth, where the Kellen Cinematic Universe is really just some of the most famous franchises to ever exist in that world.

The KCU? More like a combination of whatever Kellen has memorized from Disney, Marvel, and every book written by Ernest Hemingway ever. Plus more. God, whatever has a reputation, Kellen has probably copied it. Years of ranting online about why these works didn't deserve the recognition and how Kellen just deserved one chance to make it big because of his talent.

Not potential; he's talking actual talent in writing. Of course he has to be born in the twenty-first century back on Earth where the network is bigger, fiercer, and more competitive. Of course Kellen has to have enough crippling social anxiety to suck absolute balls at networking. Of course he dies of heart failure at twenty-nine for being inadequate, too much of a coward to actually copy more than Hemingway's work and actually pull the trigger against his own head.

Now, he's hearing rumors that this Chosen One wants to meet him.

"Shit," Kellen mutters, pacing around his living room that still feels like it's spinning, resulting in a stubbed toe against the coffee table. "Shit...! Ow, fuck, that hurt..."

He decides to sit down, but the spinning doesn't subside, and Kellen really thinks this guy might have to die at his hands. "Ideas, Kellen. Kill the bastard once he gets here, or... blackmail him...? Fuck, people already know he's from another world... I have jack shit on him..."

Okay, so if Kellen probably has a fraction of the strength in both of his lanky arms combined that he probably does in his pinky, that means murder is out. Lack of knowledge means blackmail is also out. Which leaves him with...

Nothing.

"Fuuuuck," Kellen groans, sinking into his cushioned sofa and dragging both hands down his face. "Fuck my life."

The doorbell rings. Kellen groans again, but quieter this time because the anxiety is back at full force this time. He might just be the first person in the entire universe to experience heart failure and die twice. Probably not. Kellen probably isn't even special enough to make it into some cross-dimensional Guiness World Record book for something like that.

He gets up. Clears his throat. Marches to the door with a slouch that makes his march more like an awkward, stiff creep. Suddenly, his huge ass fantasy cottage feels a lot smaller.

When he opens the door, he can just tell that this is The Chosen One. Dread settles in, then... horniness? Attraction? Fuck my life, Kellen thinks. Of course the hero is also conveniently very, very hot.

"Bastard," Kellen blurts out, and he's already in too deep to this whole 'hating the hero' thing to back out, so he tries to puff himself up and use all six feet of his height to appear intimidating. "You're from Earth, aren't you? Fuck off or I'll really kill you. Send the... Westmonte mob on your sorry, pathetic ass.

"I'm stronger than you are." A lie. "Tell me what you're doing here or you'll be seeing... pitchforks... by sundown. Or right now, if you piss me off even more.

"...I've got powers."

Another lie. Kellen crosses his arms and taps his finger against his forearm, face contorting into a scowl. "Talk already. You're acting like some big hero, but you're just a Chad-fucking-wannabe. You probably think you're so great because you're such hot shit, right?"

He didn't mean to call him hot, so Kellen just plays it off and clears his throat again. "Everyone loves me. One wrong word and I'll tell everyone you're a fraud, so don't try anything funny. Blab about my work and I'll get everyone in the nation to stage a public execution for being... ergh... attractive...? No, wait, not that..."

"Just talk," Kellen says hastily, already cursing at the fact that he's rambling like a loser even now. "Now... bastard."