I just suddenly realized that I attached some annoying female to the protagonist, the type of person who every reader dislikes. The kind who inserts herself into every plot point like she owns the halo of the imaginary world, speaking in italics and plot armor. I didn't mean for her to be annoying, but she evolved that way. Every line she said sounded like a dramatic monologue, and she somehow always knew exactly where the male lead was going. Creepy, really.
A quick contract was enough for me to put at least twenty dollars or so in my e-wallet. It felt like selling my soul, but with less paperwork. I immediately typed all the chapters of my one-seater novel in a rush that could only be described as legally concerning. The site was called "InkuMe," a place where writing standards were so low, a tumbleweed might trip over them. Still, I kinda liked it. Even if you wrote rubbish, they would still provide you with quick money because they earned more than you think. They probably profited off ads, confused readers, and hopeful amateurs like me. And let's be real, it's not like I had other marketable skills besides overthinking and poorly-timed sarcasm.
Overall, my story was only fifteen chapters with one prologue and two extra endings. The final word count was just over seven thousand. I couldn't believe it either. That was more writing than I had done in my entire school life combined. Not that it was quality. Most of it was just gibberish about the male lead's inner turmoil, including dramatic reflections like "Why do I even breathe?" and "Was it the moon, or was it her betrayal that illuminated the night?" followed by extremely detailed descriptions of him tying his shoelaces as if the fabric itself was plotting against him.
I had created one antagonist that was clearly inspired by Mr. Arésé. He wasn't even disguised. His name in the story was Aré-Zee. I gave him all the trademarks of an antagonist: sharp suits, subtle smirks, and the overwhelming urge to monologue. The moment he entered the page, it was like the weather turned cold and the lights flickered. In one scene, he insulted the male lead's haircut with such elegance, readers might think it was flirtation.
Aren't those types of people who seem to pester you the most actually the ones plotting your downfall? Just like how Sherlock was stalked by Moriarty—though, if you look at it from the wrong angle, the whole thing kind of had a romantic tension. So naturally, Aré-Zee had this habit of showing up wherever the protagonist went. At a café, during a stakeout, even once inside the protagonist's closet, sipping tea and reading his private notes. My readers would probably call it "high suspense." But if we're honest, it was suspiciously homoerotic tension wrapped in political commentary.
The female lead, on the other hand, was a disaster. She had a name, Mira something, but honestly, I kept forgetting it. She was a journalist, which sounded promising on paper, until I wrote her scenes. Somehow, every sentence she uttered turned into a motivational speech. I once made her slap a senator on live television while yelling, "This is for the people!" which felt empowering until I realized she was supposed to be undercover.
She carried around a leather notebook filled with exposés and incriminating evidence, and yet still asked questions like, "What is the meaning of truth?" in chapter twelve. I gave her a tragic backstory involving a missing brother, a corrupt system, and a suspiciously handsome mentor who died under vague circumstances. But even with all that, she still came across as someone who'd trip over her own ideas and blame society.
I thought about rewriting her, but I'd already uploaded three chapters and gotten two comments. One said, "Update please," and the other said, "Is Mira okay???" which meant I was doing something right, or very, very wrong.
While my fictional world spiraled into conspiracies and suspicious character interactions, I was in my room wearing mismatched socks, chewing instant noodles straight from the packet, and frantically checking the site for views like a stockbroker watching a crashing market.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I uploaded chapter four. I added some tags like "thriller," "political drama," "slow burn," and "unintentional romance???" just to see what would stick. My story summary was a masterpiece of vagueness: "In a city built on secrets, one man dares to untangle them—if his shoelaces don't kill him first."
I hit publish and leaned back, pretending to be chill about it. In reality, my heart was doing backflips, and my spine felt like wet spaghetti.
By this point, I was writing three thousand words per chapter just to hit the quota. If I wanted that five-dollar-per-month contract, I needed to keep churning content like a confused machine. The thought of being paid in literal coffee money for soul-draining hours of keyboard smashing didn't bother me as much as it should have.
"Honestly," I said aloud to no one, "if I ever get arrested, it'll be because of Mira's weird speeches and Aré-Zee's suspicious character arc."
I had no illusions. This wasn't great literature. It wasn't even good. But it was mine, and people were reading it—even if it was just to laugh at the chaos.
And hey, at least I got money, right?