Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The sun had barely begun its slow crawl over the horizon when Marin and Callen finally made it back to the safehouse. The streets of Oryn-Vel were quiet at this hour, the raucous nightlife having died down to nothing but the occasional drunken straggler or shadowed figure slipping through the alleyways.

Marin exhaled, rubbing at her sore arms. It had been a long night. The job had gone well enough—no injuries, no casualties, and best of all, a sizable shipment of hallucinogenic herbs had been confiscated before it could make its way into the wrong hands. Not that there were particularly right hands when it came to that kind of substance, but it was a job nonetheless.

Callen, walking beside her, stretched his arms overhead with a wide yawn. "That was almost too easy."

Marin shot him a flat look. "Are you actually complaining?"

"Not at all." He grinned, shaking out his shoulders. "I'm just saying, we didn't even get into a real fight. It was more of a mild scuffle."

Marin rolled her eyes. "You're unbearable."

"And yet, you still work with me. What does that say about you?"

"That I have no other options."

"Wow." Callen clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me."

Marin ignored him as they approached the door to the safehouse. She was looking forward to collapsing into a chair and maybe—just maybe—getting some actual rest.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, expecting the space to be empty. Instead, her tired brain took a second too long to register the new addition to their usual safehouse setup.

There, curled up on the small cot in the corner, was a young man she had seen before.

Marin blinked.

Callen, stepping in behind her, also paused, staring at the figure with an expression that quickly shifted from confusion to intrigue. "Huh."

The stranger—Charon, wasn't it?—was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. He looked… normal enough. A bit out of place, but then again, so were they.

Marin frowned. ""Why is he here?"

Callen smirked. "What, you don't remember him? I knew he wasn't the type of guy to stay still.."

Marin shot him a glare before crossing the room to inspect him further. He was young, maybe likely five years younger than the rest of them, or more. Marin herself was the oldest, at 28. Ishmael followed at 25, just ahead of the 24 year old Tess. Callen, to no surprise, was 22, and so was their youngest. Charon dressed in clothes that looked functional but not particularly suited for their kind of work.

"Think Tess picked him up?" Callen asked, dropping into a chair and kicking his feet up on the table. "Wouldn't be the first time she dragged in a poor soul."

Marin huffed. "I don't like unknown variables."

"Of course you don't," Callen said, amused.

Before Marin could respond, movement from the far side of the room caught her attention. She turned her head just in time to see Tess—her hair thoroughly mussed—pressed up against a very irritated-looking Ishmael, their lips firmly locked together.

Marin's eye twitched.

Callen, watching the scene with mild interest, slowly sat up. "Huh."

Ishmael, to his credit, looked like he was at least attempting to break away, but Tess had her fingers curled around the front of his coat, her stance too casual to be entirely unplanned. She was enjoying herself.

Marin pinched the bridge of her nose. "Again?"

Tess barely glanced at her before finally—finally—pulling away, though she didn't step back. She still had that smug little smile on her lips, the one that made Marin want to throw something at her.

"I don't understand why this keeps surprising you," Tess said breezily.

Marin threw her hands up. "Because it's indecent."

Tess arched a brow. "And?"

Marin groaned.

Callen, still watching with far more amusement than concern, leaned forward on his elbows. "Y'know, I get it."

Marin glared at him. "Do not encourage her."

Callen shrugged. "I mean, Ishmael is the strong and silent type."

Tess grinned. "Exactly! See, someone understands me."

Marin crossed her arms. "It's disgusting."

Tess smirked, finally stepping back from Ishmael—who, by now, had managed to regain his usual scowl. She tossed a wink at Marin. "Oh, don't be jealous. You'll find someone someday."

Marin's eye twitched again.

Callen leaned back in his chair, stretching. "So, Tess. When's it my turn?"

The room went silent.

Then, in perfect unison:

"Shut up, Callen."

Callen raised his hands in surrender, grinning. "Alright, alright. No need to gang up on me."

Tess turned back toward Ishmael, who had long since given up on arguing. "You don't seem to mind," she mused.

Ishmael sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I have no control over my own life."

"Exactly."

Marin had had enough.

"We're all exhausted," she said sharply. "Ishmael, Tess—go… do whatever it is you do. Callen, stop talking. And as for him—" she pointed at the still-sleeping Char, "—I want to know why he's here when he wakes up."

Callen gave an exaggerated salute. "Yes, boss."

Tess just smirked and sauntered away, Ishmael following with a deep sigh that said he was already regretting every choice that had led him to this moment. They left together, heading towards the ladder that led to the roof.

Marin exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose once more. "I hate you all."

Callen patted her shoulder. "You love us."

She shoved his hand away.

In the quiet that followed, Marin turned her gaze back to the sleeping person in the corner, who she had only known for a day, but was already involved with them somehow.

Whoever Charon truly was, she had a feeling he was going to be a problem