Leon woke up promptly at nine in the morning. He pushed back his tattered blanket and moved toward the bathroom with slow, deliberate steps. Under the hot shower, the steam enveloped his body, which did not resemble that of the typical writer; despite his long isolation and retreat behind his room's walls, he took his fitness seriously, possessing a strong, muscular physique.
His wet blond hair fell across his forehead, while his blue eyes gleamed with a cold intensity. What distinguished him most was the jet-black tattoo that climbed from the top of his chest, winding up his neck to approach the edge of his chin.
He put on a rough coat to shield himself from the cold and headed to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast, a true reflection of his severe poverty: just a few pieces of stale bread from two days ago and a cup of hot tea.
Leon, twenty-six years old, had been living alone for three years after a tragic car accident claimed his parents and sister, leaving him to struggle with life in Germany alone.
The government had provided him with a modest social allowance of $500, but this sole lifeline had been cut off completely two months earlier, leaving him teetering on the edge of hunger.
He sat in his wooden chair and pressed the power button on his computer. He waited long minutes, watching the screen blink slowly and irritably. He sighed bitterly and muttered:
"I need to change this damn machine… it's heavier than my life."
Finally, the system responded. He connected to the internet and went straight to Novel MAX.com.
He entered his account details and, with a racing heart, navigated to the "My Books" icon.
He clicked on his novel's page, and here… he rubbed his eyes violently, trying to confirm whether what he saw was real or merely a hallucination born from deprivation.
[Novel: The Point Is Not That I'm a Killer… But the People I've Killed]
[Author: Leon Williams]
[Reads: 156,000]
[Rating: 5/5]
[Rank: 5th in Crime]
[Chapters: 156]
"This… this is unexpected… hahaha!"
A hysterical laugh burst from his chest. The numbers were astonishing, but that was not all—he noticed an official notification from the site's management at the top of his inbox.
He opened the message anxiously and read carefully:
"Greetings,
Novel MAX is pleased to express its official interest in contracting with you regarding your novel, after reviewing its content and artistic evaluation. We wish to offer you an exclusive publishing contract, including an initial payment and discussion of revenue mechanisms..."
Leon felt a surge of euphoria run through his veins when he reached the section about financial terms. Without hesitation, he electronically signed the contract, which required him to publish a chapter every two days, in exchange for an immediate initial payment of $1,500.
The terms were more than just ink on paper—they were a lifeline: he would receive 70% of the revenue from paid chapters, plus a $50 bonus for each new chapter published based on high viewership.
A few minutes after signing, he received a PayPal notification.
He opened his account, trembling, to find $1,500 in his balance, as if a miracle had descended from the sky.
"Damn… I think I'm going to cry," he muttered, his voice choked as he watched the number that would save him from the depths of hunger.
He did not hesitate for a second to transfer the full amount to his bank account, as if fearing that the dream would vanish if the money wasn't tangible.
Leon returned to the novel's page and began reading the comments, which were multiplying like wildfire. The comment section had become a battlefield between fans, critics, and those trying to decode his mysterious persona.
"A very dark and bloody novel, but why does the protagonist seem depressed throughout?"
Leon replied coldly: "That's just my writing style."
Another comment asked: "Writer, is this novel autobiographical?"
He answered with a single, decisive word: "No."
"Writer, will James ally with the Australian federal authorities?"
He replied: "I don't know, wait for the next chapters."
Comments kept pouring in; one demanded a Discord channel, another asked about the relationship between James and Emma and whether he would be intimate with her. Then he came across a comment that made him pause:
"Why did he kill Kalissa? Isn't she his wife? He killed her without any logical reason, but the way the story and the corpse details are written makes me certain this is a 190% autobiography!"
Leon sighed in exasperation and muttered: "Oh my God…"
He continued replying to as many comments as he could, marveling at readers' insistence on linking his fiction to reality. Every detail he had written seemed real to them in a frightening way, but deep down, he smiled wryly; he knew that every drop of blood he described, every scream of pain he wrote, was mere fiction born in a dark room. And if that "realism" brought him money, let them believe whatever they wanted.
Finally, he closed his computer, leaving behind thousands of strangers wondering about the identity of the killer hiding behind the keyboard, while he thought of only one thing: a warm meal befitting a writer no longer penniless.
...
Leon quickly dressed and left his relatively warm apartment to face the piercing cold of the street. He walked confidently toward the nearest ATM, a strange sense of power coursing through him.
Upon arrival, he inserted his card slowly and pressed the buttons on the keypad, following the steps to withdraw the full $1,500. A brief silence followed, then the satisfying hum of the money counting machine behind the metal screen.
When the bundle of $100 bills emerged, Leon held them and felt the rough texture of the paper; it was the first time in a long time he had held such an amount in his hands.
He then headed straight to a restaurant, unable to delay his hunger any longer. Upon entering, he was greeted by the appetizing aroma of food he had long missed. He sat at a corner table, and soon a young waitress approached with a friendly smile:
"What would you like, sir?"
Leon replied, his eyes scanning the menu intently:
"A large pizza, a Coke, and spicy chicken wings."
When the food arrived, he did not wait long; he began eating voraciously, savoring every bite as a reward for days of dry bread and cold tea. Once finished, he approached the payment counter.
"Your total is $45, sir," said the cashier, smiling warmly.
Leon took out a $100 bill and handed it to her. The waitress, a beautiful woman with long black hair and a well-proportioned figure, could not hide her admiration for his sharp features and the prominent tattoo beneath his coat collar. She returned the change and gave him a look full of meaning.
At the door, Leon instinctively checked the note she had slipped in with the change and found her phone number and Instagram account written neatly in small letters. He let out a quiet laugh as he left; it seemed his handsomeness and strong physique were already attracting attention.
Returning to his apartment, he felt renewed energy. He tossed his coat onto the bed and sat in front of his computer. It was no longer just a hobby or a way to kill time; now he had a contract, readers waiting, and a professional obligation demanding precision and expertise. He began preparing the next chapter, reviewing the plot and refining the details.
After reviewing the chapter once, then twice, he uploaded it.
[Then he uploaded chapter 157.]
Leon yawned and went to watch a movie, unwilling to publish like yesterday, as he had uploaded over a hundred chapters at once and knew that doing so would kill engagement.