"The scent of a city in mourning," I whispered to the empty street. I immediately felt my soul leave my body from the sheer embarrassment of saying that out loud.
But honestly? It fits.
Because I am in mourning.
I'm mourning the hundreds of hours I'll never get back. I'm mourning the money I threw at a hack who doesn't know how to finish a sentence, let alone a legacy.
I walked outside at 2:00 AM because I wanted to 'feel something' other than this unpent rage.
Seriously! What the hell was he smoking? No, better question what part of his brain signed off on that?
In anger I clenched so tight my nails are almost drawing blood, almost.
'Ouch!' It hurts actually. and my chest… my heart, it feels like it's bleeding, not in some poetic way, but in that stupid, humiliating sense of betrayal.
Like I trusted someone who smiled at me while sharpening the knife.
How do you do it?
How do you write twenty-two hundred chapters of growth, of struggle, of a romance that actually made me feel something, just to spit on it at the finish line?
Years of buildup. Years of investment. I paid for this. I defended this novel. I recommended it.
I stuck with it through weak side arcs and clunky dialogue because it was going somewhere.
Everything was going so well.
The confession happened.
The long, agonizing misunderstandings were resolved.
The characters finally stood on the same side, scars acknowledged, hands held together.
It was supposed to be the payoff! The moment where everything mattered!
And then… that.
"And then he died."
Right at the start of the final arc.
Just like that. No glory. No meaning. Just a cheap, shock-value execution that effectively rendered every previous page worthless.
What were you smoking, you absolute coward?
Did you think you were being "edgy"? Did you think you were "breaking the mold"?
You didn't break the mold; you broke the contract between author and reader.
I followed you to the end of the world, and you rewarded me by burning the map and pissing on the ashes.
If you wanted to write garbage, you should've done it from the start.
If this was the ending you were so proud of, you should've slapped it on page one so I could've closed the book and saved myself the time, the money, and this hollow feeling in my chest.
But no, you lured us in with hope just to satisfy some twisted urge to be "different."
Now I'm standing in the middle of a dark street, freezing my literal blood off, because I can't be inside with that book.
I can't look at my phone. I can't look at the screen because it reminds of what I have read.
I feel like I've been robbed, not of money, but of a world that I cared about more than the author clearly did.
It's not "art." It's a middle finger.
And God help me, I hate that I still care enough to be this angry.
I stood under a flickering streetlamp and tilted my head back, waiting for a moment of profound clarity.
Instead, a moth flew into my mouth.
Hack! Cough! I double over, spitting and gagging. God, even the universe thinks I'm acting stupid. Trying to have a 'cinematic moment' in a suburban cul-de-sac at 2:00 AM is officially the cringiest thing I've done all year.
I wiped my mouth and stared at the stars anyway, sighing like I had a "tragic backstory". I'm a literal level 100 edgelord, and I can't even stop edg—
"Fuck, it's cold."
The words came out the moment the night air slipped under my shirt and sank its teeth into me. I shuddered violently.
I shouldn't have come out of my cave. I was not built for the outdoors. My ancestors clearly didn't grind enough cold resistance.
Then—
BEEEP! BEEEP!
The sound punched straight through my skull.
"Shit," I muttered, rubbing my eyes as I turned.
There was a truck.
"…Why is there a truck here?"
Why a fucking, heavy-duty freight truck was barreling down this narrow-ass road like it was qualifying for NASCAR.
"Shit," I hissed, trying to step back. Instantly a chill ran over my back, I looked down and there my boots and didn't move.
It wasn't just fear; it felt like the asphalt had turned into industrial-grade epoxy.
My legs were vibrating, but they weren't going anywhere.
"Move! Move, you useless sacks of meat!"
The truck was getting closer. I felt its vibration as it closed the gap.
The grill looked like a row of iron teeth.
And then I saw the cabin.
Instantly my Spidey Sense alerted me to maximum. The hairs on my hands spring up.
"Th-th-th cabin… is Empty." In fear I shuddered.
There was nobody behind the wheel, as if the steering wheel was locked straight, aiming for my soul.
"No way," my brain finally caught up with reality, a much worse detail registered.
"Ha-ha-ha…" I wheezed, a hysterical laugh tearing out of my throat even as my vision began to blur with tears of pure terror.
"Is this a prank? Because I will absolutely piss myself if this is a prank." I tried to make some sense out of this situation but as the truck got more closer, the panic set in.
"No... no, no, no! This is too on the nose! I was just complaining about the writing! You can't Isekai me now! I haven't even cleared my browser history!"
The roar of the engine was a physical wall of sound now, vibrating in my teeth.
Now my heart wasn't just beating; it was trying to punch its way out of my ribs to escape the impact, with each beat screaming MOVE MOVE MOVE, but my body had filed a formal complaint and shut down.
"Shit. Shit. Shit. STOP! STOP! STO—"
BEEEEEEP!!!
The horn blared again, louder this time, rattlin my bones.
"SOMEONE! HELP ME!" I screamed, the sound cracking as my voice hit a pitch I didn't know I could reach.
"POLICE! NEIGHBORS! ANYONE! I DON'T WANT TO DIE A VIRGIN!"
I came out to cool my head.
Not to get isekai'd.
I looked up at the empty sky, the stars blurred by the moisture in my eyes.
'Is this the 'New Life' package?! Is this the part where I get a cheat skill?! Because I'd really prefer 'Not Getting Smeared Into a Meat-Paste' right now!'
I could already imagine it, my body flying, hitting the wall, becoming a human splatter like some low-budget horror effect.
Years of wasted life condensed into a red smear on roadside, like some kind of Final destination.
I shook my head wildly.
No. No way. This is stress. Sleep deprivation. Literary trauma.
The words echoed uselessly into the night.
"HELP! MOTHERFUCKER, STOP! YOU LUNATIC!"
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!
The horn screamed one final time, while I felt screaming.
That was all I could do—scream—while the grille filled my vision, cold steel rushing toward me, inevitability wearing headlights.
Fuck.
I'm dead.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands coming up in a pathetic, useless shield.
'At least let the next author be better than the last one,' was my final, panicked thought before the world turned into white light and the sound of breaking bone.