Uncanonically Yours

(Crystal’s POV—your local gremlin fangirl who just crash-landed into a fictional warzone.)

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You know what they say: curiosity killed the cat.

Well, the cat's dead, and I am the ghost.

Because I, Crystal—professional shut-in, unlicensed fictional therapist, and certified fangirl—made the dumbest decision of my life: I reread Shatter Me. After swearing I was done. After promising myself I wouldn’t go through the pain again. But noooo. The trauma wasn’t enough, apparently. I just had to “check something real quick.”

And now I’ve been isekai’d straight into a dystopian hell scape.

I woke up flat on my face, cheek smooshed against cold concrete, in what I can only describe as the sketchiest underground lair since every bad sci-fi movie ever. The walls look like they were decorated by someone with a gun and no time, the lights flicker like they're powered by anxiety, and everything smells vaguely like metal and stress.

Naturally, I screamed.

Well, not screamed screamed. More like… yelped in lowercase. “Ah.”

It echoed. Which was rude.

My first thought: Did I die? Is this limbo? Did I fall into a fanfic?                            My second thought: Am I wearing my Pikachu pajamas? Please, no.

(Thankfully, I wasn’t. Universe: 1. Embarrassment: 0.)

Then, before I could even process the “What the actual hell” of it all, he walked by.

Adam freaking Kent.

Real. Breathing. Five-foot-eleven (ish?) of protective, morally grounded heartbreak. He passed the hallway like he was late to a life-or-death meeting—which, let’s be real, knowing his luck, he probably was—and I froze. Like literally, emotionally, mentally—brain.exe stopped responding.

I ducked behind some storage crates faster than a cockroach under a kitchen light. My heart was hammering like I’d just seen BTS in concert, except instead of Jungkook, it was the guy who used to make me swoon in high school while I sat alone eating instant noodles.

I had to slap myself. Twice. Full-on Will Smith slap, right across the cheek.

Spoiler: It wasn't a dream.

Also spoiler: My cheek still hurts.

He’s real. He’s actually real. This is real. Or I’ve completely snapped and this is a very elaborate psychotic break.

Either way—I’m staying.

His jaw was clenched. His shoulders tense. His walk was all fire and fury and sadness, like someone just drop-kicked his soul. Which means canon timeline-wise, this must be right around Unravel Me. AKA—the moment everything starts going to hell for him.

And that’s why I’m here.

Because this guy, the one walking down this hallway, is about to go through hell. My hell. And I can’t—no, I won’t let that happen again. Not after I watched his pain from the sidelines, helpless, unable to do anything about it. I can’t stand by while he gets broken, twisted, used, and then… abandoned.

Nope.

No sir.

Not on my watch.

I muttered to myself, “Plot twist incoming, baby.” Because if the universe threw me here, then I’m making it worth it.

Except. Small issue.

I have no idea where I am, what year it is, what anyone knows, and—oh yeah—I have no food, no ID, no plan, and I’m wearing the world’s most suspicious hoodie. I look like I broke into this secret rebel base to steal snacks and run.

I tried to follow Adam because obviously. And I’d like to say I did it discreetly, but I tripped over a mop bucket, hit my elbow on a pipe, and stubbed my toe in the span of twelve seconds. Stealth? Never heard of her.

Still, I limped after him like the broken raccoon I am, because dammit, this is my story too now. And if Warner thinks he’s going to psychologically break this man and walk off with the main love interest title? Guess again, Barbie.

I’m not here to flirt. I’m not here to fangirl.

(Okay. I am.)

Crystal: 1, Plot: 0.

I ducked into a side room before someone saw me—one of those locker-room looking places filled with gear and a smell that can only be described as “sweat and despair.” I sat on a bench, tugged my hoodie tighter around me, and tried to calm the chaos in my brain.

Okay. Think. You’re in the Shatter Me universe. Don’t freak out. You know how this story goes. You can use that. But don’t get cocky—you’re just a clumsy girl with a temper and a deep hatred for bad writing. No powers. No backup. Just sarcasm and a moral grudge.

My mission is simple:

1. Stay hidden.

2. Don’t let anyone find out you know things.

3. Protect Adam at all costs.

4. Maybe punch Warner in the face if the opportunity arises.

5. Look cute while doing it.

Simple. Right?

Right?

...

Yeah, I’m so screwed.