Death was… surprising. One minute I was munching on pizza and binge-watching Psych for the hundredth time—Shawn's antics, Gus's straight-man brilliance, Lassie's simmering rage—it was my comfort show. And the next? Darkness. A blip. Then light. Painfully bright light.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in my apartment anymore. I was staring at a ceiling fan that looked way too retro to be modern. I sat up, heart pounding, and immediately noticed three things:
1. My body felt different—lighter, leaner.
2. The room was vaguely familiar. Beachy. California vibes.
3. A voice was calling from downstairs: "Shawn! You better not be ignoring your responsibilities again!"
Wait… Shawn?
I rushed to the mirror and nearly passed out. Staring back at me was Shawn Spencer—fluffy hair, mischievous smirk forming unconsciously. I was in the show.
Reincarnated. As Shawn Freakin' Spencer.
And not just at any point—this was season one. I was at the beginning. Before the fame. Before the cases. Before the Psych office. This was my chance.
I had the knowledge of every episode, every twist, every moment. But I also knew the rules of the universe had shifted slightly. My senses were sharper. I wasn't just faking hyper-observation like the real Shawn—I actually had it now. Like a mix between The Mentalist and Sherlock Holmes… on pineapple juice.
Was this a dream? A test? A gift from a higher power who loved USA Network?
Didn't matter.
I grinned.
This time, I wasn't just watching Psych.
I was Psych.