Just a Little Walk

By Jamie F. Bell

A down-on-his-luck young man finds himself transmigrated into a cheap webnovel, forced to navigate a new life, a dangerous plot, and an unexpectedly charming 'villain' who might be his only hope—or his downfall.

The sun beat down on the cracked asphalt, a thick, suffocating blanket of heat that made the air shimmer above the convenience store's peeling 'Open' sign. Simon wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, his finger coming away gritty. This body, his *new* body, was not built for this kind of humidity. His old one, the one that had met an unfortunate end involving a poorly maintained bus and a moment of distracted scrolling, had at least been accustomed to air conditioning. Now, he was stuck in this… this vessel of an idiot cannon fodder from a forgotten webnovel.

He adjusted the strap of the cheap, oversized messenger bag on his shoulder. Inside, clinking softly, were three 'vintage' action figures he’d found buried in the bottom of a dusty box in the attic of his (this body’s) dilapidated rental. They were knock-offs, clearly, but he’d cleaned them up, scuffed them just right, and practiced a convincing spiel about 'rare limited edition finds'. He needed the cash. Desperately. To escape. To change the plot. To not, you know, die a brutal, entirely avoidable death.

The bell above the door jangled, a tinny sound that grated on his already frayed nerves. He’d barely stepped inside, the blast of stale, recycled air hitting him like a physical wall, when a voice, low and smooth as worn river stone, cut through the din of the humming refrigerators.

"Simon. Fancy seeing you here."

The name, *his* name, felt like a punch to the gut. Simon froze, his hand still on the door handle, knuckles white. The air con, despite its best efforts, did nothing for the sudden flush that crept up his neck, heating his ears. He knew that voice. Knew it from the vague, horrifying memories of the webnovel's character descriptions. Milo. The antagonist. The *Seme*. And the guy who was supposed to be indirectly responsible for cannon fodder Simon's messy demise. Right. Don't engage. Do not, under any circumstances, engage.

He turned slowly, forcing a casual slouch. Milo stood by the candy aisle, a bag of sour gummies held loosely in one hand. He wasn't overtly threatening, not in the way the webnovel had dramatically painted him. Instead, he just… was. Tall, lean, with eyes that held too much, saw too much. His dark hair was just slightly too long, brushing the collar of a plain white t-shirt. The sun, filtered through the grime of the convenience store window, somehow caught the faint sheen on his skin, making him look less like a local thug and more like someone who'd just stepped out of a high-end catalogue.

"Milo," Simon managed, the name a dry whisper on his tongue. He tried to sound nonchalant, like seeing the harbinger of his doom in the snack aisle was just another Tuesday. His heart, however, was doing a frantic drum solo against his ribs. The webnovel's plot points, half-remembered and terrifying, started flickering like a broken neon sign behind his eyes. 'The incident at the docks,' 'The ledger,' 'The suspicious disappearance.' All tied to Milo. All tied to Simon's original, canon, grim fate.

Milo gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, just the corner of his mouth twitching. It wasn't friendly, not exactly, but it wasn't hostile either. It was… knowing. "Didn't expect you out this way. Thought you were still holed up with that new project of yours."

Project. Right. This body’s Simon was supposedly trying to 'fix up' the old abandoned lighthouse on the outskirts of town, which was, naturally, where he was supposed to stumble upon the *thing* that would get him killed. The webnovel had been vague about the specifics, but the outcome was crystal clear.

"Yeah, well. Needed a break," Simon lied, shifting his weight. He could feel Milo's gaze, heavy and focused, tracing the line of his jaw. It made the hairs on his arms stand on end, a strange, electric static that was both alarming and, annoyingly, intriguing. This was the Seme archetypal power, wasn't it? The sheer *presence* that made you feel like you were the only other person in the room, despite the distant murmur of the shopkeeper and the hum of the fridge.

"A break from what?" Milo asked, his voice still even, but the question hung in the humid air, heavy with unspoken implication. He slowly, deliberately, put the bag of gummies back on the shelf. His movements were precise, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world, and Simon was the most interesting thing in it. It was unnerving. This wasn't the clumsy, almost oblivious Simon of the webnovel. This was *him*, a modern man who understood subtext, who knew what a man like Milo represented in this genre.

Simon stammered, his mind racing. He couldn't just say, 'Oh, you know, trying to avoid the horrific fate you're supposed to inflict upon me in approximately three chapters.' "Just… from the… dust. Lots of dust. Old place, you know?" He managed a weak chuckle. It sounded less like genuine amusement and more like a dying pigeon.

Milo stepped closer, a step that felt less like movement and more like the ground itself tilting. He didn't invade personal space, not overtly, but the air around them compressed. Simon could smell something faint and clean — laundry detergent, maybe, mixed with a hint of something deeper, like damp earth after a long rain. It was disorienting, grounding him while simultaneously throwing him off balance.

"The lighthouse," Milo stated, not a question. His eyes, a deep, almost unreadable brown, locked onto Simon's. There was a flicker there, something unquantifiable, like light catching on dark water. "It's a big project. You'll need help."

"Oh. No, I'm, uh, fine," Simon said quickly, too quickly. His hands, without conscious thought, went to the strap of his messenger bag, clutching it tighter. He could feel the cheap plastic figures pressing against his hip. This conversation was veering dangerously close to the plot. *Help* from Milo was the last thing he needed. Help from Milo usually meant a tighter leash, more surveillance, and a faster track to his untimely end.

Milo just watched him, that same faint, unreadable curve on his lips. "You look like you haven't eaten anything solid in days." It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. A clinical assessment. But it made Simon's stomach clench in belated agreement. He had, in fact, mostly subsisted on instant ramen and stale bread since his transmigration.

"I'm good," Simon insisted, trying to project an air of self-sufficiency he absolutely did not possess. He needed to leave. Now. Before Milo could spin this into some kind of forced 'bonding' scenario that would inevitably lead to the docks and the ledger and the terrible, terrible secret.

Milo’s gaze drifted from Simon’s face to his messenger bag, lingering for a beat longer than was comfortable. Simon felt a fresh wave of panic. Did he know about the figures? Did he recognize them as fakes? Was this the first thread of the webnovel's intricate, deadly trap unwinding? But Milo just straightened, his shoulders broad and still. "Come on," he said, his voice softer now, almost an invitation. "I'm grabbing some groceries. Walk with me."

Walk with me. The simplicity of the command was disarming. It wasn't a question. It was an expectation. And Simon, despite every alarm bell screaming in his head, found himself unable to refuse. His feet felt oddly heavy, rooted to the spot, even as his mind frantically cataloged reasons to bolt. The webnovel Simon would have probably been too flattered, too naive, too desperate for attention to say no. And now, he, the modern Simon, was finding it just as impossible to resist the subtle, compelling force of Milo's presence.

"I, uh…" Simon started, then trailed off, useless. He swallowed, the movement feeling rough. He needed to pawn these figures, needed to get out of this town, needed to somehow rewrite a destiny that felt pre-ordained. But Milo was already turning, heading towards the checkout, a casual nod to the bored cashier. He didn't even look back, just assumed Simon would follow. And Simon did. Every step felt like walking a tightrope, the ground beneath him both familiar and terrifyingly new. He was being drawn in, just like the original Simon. And he had no idea how to stop it, or if he even wanted to anymore. The humid air outside felt heavier, buzzing with an unspoken current, the kind that promised a storm, or perhaps, something far worse.

He trailed behind Milo, the older man’s broad back a silent, unyielding presence. Milo moved with a quiet efficiency, dropping a few items onto the conveyor belt: a carton of eggs, a bag of rice, some fresh vegetables. Ordinary things. Too ordinary for the man who was supposed to be a shadowy figure. Simon watched him, trying to reconcile the mundane with the menacing. It was a struggle. The webnovel had painted Milo with broad, villainous strokes, but here, in the harsh, unflattering fluorescent light, he was just… a guy buying groceries. A handsome guy, sure, but a guy nonetheless.

The cashier, a young woman with tired eyes, scanned Milo’s items. She didn’t look at Simon, which was a relief, but also a quiet reaffirmation of his new-found invisibility in this town. The original Simon was known, but only as a minor eccentric, a footnote. Milo, however, held a certain weight. The cashier’s movements were a little quicker, her voice a little softer when she spoke to him. It was a subtle deference that Simon hadn’t noticed before, and it prickled at the back of his neck.

Milo paid with a crisp twenty-dollar bill, tucking the change into his wallet without a second glance. He took the plastic grocery bag, the handles stretching under the weight, and then turned to Simon. "Ready?" Again, not a question. Just a statement, an expectation. Simon nodded, feeling like a puppet on a string, his mind still reeling from the unexpected encounter. He was supposed to be running *from* Milo, not walking *with* him. This was all wrong. And yet, there was a strange, undeniable hum beneath his skin, a visceral reaction to Milo’s proximity that was completely separate from his terror of the plot.

They stepped back out into the oppressive summer heat. The air was thick and still, heavy with the scent of hot asphalt and something faintly metallic, like static electricity before a storm. Milo didn't speak, just started walking, turning left down a street lined with dusty, sun-baked storefronts. Simon fell into step beside him, a good foot and a half of distance between them. He could feel the slight friction of his own shirt against his skin, the warmth radiating off Milo's arm, even through the thin fabric.

His gaze kept darting to Milo. The way the muscles in his forearms flexed slightly as he carried the bag. The faint scar above his left eyebrow, barely visible. The subtle scent of him, clean and earthy, that seemed to cling to the humid air. It was all so real. More real than the vague, flimsy memories of the webnovel. This wasn't a character on a page. This was a man. A dangerous man, perhaps, but undeniably… captivating. The electric charge that pulsed between them was a physical thing, something he could almost taste.

"So, the lighthouse," Milo said, breaking the silence, his voice a low rumble. "Still convinced you can fix it? That old thing hasn't seen proper maintenance in fifty years. It's a money pit."

Simon shrugged, forcing himself to look straight ahead, at the shimmering heat rising from the road. "It's got character. Besides, it's cheap rent." The lie felt thin, transparent. He wasn't fixing anything; he was trying to find a way out, and the lighthouse was just a temporary hideout before the plot caught up. But he couldn't tell Milo that. He couldn’t tell him anything, really.

"Character," Milo echoed, a hint of something like amusement in his tone. "Or a slow way to get tetanus. There's a reason nobody else bothers with it."

"Someone has to, right?" Simon retorted, a flash of defensiveness. He didn't like being dismissed, even by a potential future murderer. He was trying to survive, dammit. This wasn’t a game. But the humor, the absurd irony of his situation, kept bubbling up. He was arguing about real estate with the guy who was supposed to ruin his life.

Milo stopped then, unexpectedly, right in front of a small, nondescript storefront with faded awnings. It was the local hardware store. He gestured with his chin towards the entrance. "I need some things. You can wait out here, or…" He left the sentence hanging, an open invitation that felt like a trap. Simon hesitated. His figures. He needed to get rid of them. But leaving Milo now felt… harder than staying. Like severing a connection that had just formed, fragile and terrifying as it was.

"I'll… I'll come in," Simon said, his voice a little hoarse. He couldn't explain why. Maybe it was the crushing weight of the plot, the feeling that he was already caught, so why resist? Or maybe it was just the strange, undeniable pull that hummed between them, an almost physical leash that tugged him forward. He followed Milo inside, the smell of sawdust and fresh paint a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside.

Inside, the hardware store was a jumble of tools, pipes, and buckets. Milo moved with purpose, heading straight for the plumbing aisle. Simon lingered by the shelves of nails and screws, pretending to be interested in various fasteners, but his attention was fixed on Milo. He watched him pick up a length of PVC pipe, turn it over in his hands, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked… normal. Too normal.

A wave of fear, cold and sharp, washed over Simon. This normalcy was the most dangerous thing. The webnovel’s antagonist hadn’t been a cartoon villain. He’d been a charming, ordinary man who hid terrible secrets beneath a veneer of respectability. This was the domestic thriller aspect, wasn't it? The danger lurking in plain sight, in the mundane corners of everyday life.

Milo finally chose a pipe, and a few fittings. He turned, catching Simon's gaze. "You look thoughtful. Planning your escape from the lighthouse, already?"

Simon flinched, a surprised gasp escaping him. He hadn't realized how openly he'd been staring. "No. Just… thinking about what kind of wrench I'd need to fix that place up." It was a pathetic cover. Milo just looked at him, those deep eyes unblinking. It was impossible to tell if he bought it. Impossible to tell what he was thinking, what he truly knew. The silence stretched, thick and pregnant with unspoken words, with secrets and half-formed suspicions.

When they finally left the hardware store, Milo had another bag, heavier this time. He still didn’t offer it to Simon, just carried it himself, walking at a steady, unhurried pace. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, distorted shadows down the street. The heat, however, hadn't abated. It still clung, suffocating and relentless. Simon felt a growing exhaustion, not just from the heat, but from the sheer mental effort of trying to navigate this new, treacherous reality.

They walked in silence for a long time, past the sleepy downtown, past a diner with a buzzing neon sign, past houses with overgrown lawns. It was a pleasant enough walk, if you ignored the screaming internal monologue of 'don't die, don't die, don't die' and the electric awareness of the man beside him. Milo turned a corner, heading down a quieter residential street, towards what Simon vaguely recognized as the direction of his own rented shack. He wondered if Milo was just walking him home, or if this was part of a larger plan. The webnovel had been full of 'chance' encounters that were anything but.

Milo finally stopped in front of a modest, well-kept house with a small, manicured garden. It wasn't flashy, but it spoke of stability, of roots. "This is me," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He looked at Simon, a long, assessing look that made Simon's breath catch. "You should eat something, Simon. You look like you're about to blow over."

He reached into his grocery bag, pulling out a small, ripe apple. He offered it to Simon. It was a simple gesture, innocent, almost kind. But the webnovel's memories flashed again: the poisoned apple, the seemingly harmless gift that turned deadly. Simon stared at the fruit in Milo's outstretched hand, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm. His new life depended on this. On resisting this man, this plot. Yet, his stomach rumbled, a traitorous protest.

He took the apple. His fingers brushed Milo’s, a quick, almost imperceptible spark. Milo's skin was warm, firm. Simon's own fingers felt clumsy, trembling slightly. Milo’s gaze lingered on their joined hands for a fraction of a second too long, then he withdrew, his expression unreadable. "Good," he said, the single word a low hum. "Don't starve yourself. You'll need your strength. The lighthouse… it’s going to be more work than you think."

He turned then, a final, lingering look over his shoulder, a hint of something unreadable in his deep eyes. "And Simon," he added, his voice dropping just a notch, making the hairs on Simon's arms prickle. "Be careful what you dig up out there. Some things are better left buried." He went inside, the door closing with a soft click, leaving Simon standing alone on the sidewalk, the apple heavy and cool in his hand. The setting sun cast long, eerie shadows across the street, painting the familiar world in shades of ominous gold and purple. The faint smell of damp earth and something acrid, like burnt sugar, drifted on the still air, a silent warning of the deeper currents beneath the surface of this sleepy summer town. He bit into the apple, the crisp sweetness a shock against his tongue, but his gaze was fixed on Milo’s closed door, a cold dread settling in his gut.

He knew the webnovel. He knew the plot. But Milo… Milo was nothing like he’d expected. And that, he realized with a chilling certainty, was far more terrifying than anything the book had ever described. The quiet, watchful gaze, the subtle commands, the undercurrent of danger masked by mundane kindness – it was all too real. The game had changed, and he was already neck-deep in it.