Midnight. The city slept, but my screen glowed brighter than any streetlamp.
"Kill her."
The heroine of Chapter 23. Everyone loved her. Everyone cried over her. Everyone adored her. Everyone was wrong.
I typed fast, smirking. Blood, betrayal, despair—I wrote them all in bold strokes.
Why do people care about fiction? Ridiculous.
As usual, comments flooded in as I uploaded the chapter.
"You monster!"
"I hate you, author!"
"Why would you kill her?!"
I replied calmly, as the author: The heroine would die horribly, along with her golden-haired sidekick. Their final moments will be filled with despair.
More comments exploded.
"You dumb!"
"Don't kill her!"
I leaned back in my chair, stretching my fingers. The soft glow of the monitor reflected off my tired eyes.
…Good, one more perfect chapter for my novel.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. The clock now screamed 5 a.m.
Coffee?
Shower?
Forget it.
I need to hurry up.
Overload work was waiting, as always, with my boss breathing down my neck and deadlines pressing like a vice.
I closed my laptop, grabbed my coat, and stepped out into the walking city. The streets were quiet—eerily so.
As I walked, I opened my phone and reread the hate comments on my novel.
I smiled.
Then screaming erupted ahead.
In front of the bank, people were running in all directions. Police. Robbers. A pistol glinted in the early morning light.
A gunshot cut through the air.
A masked man aimed at a police officer frozen mid-step.
"Stay away! Or I'll shoot!"
My instincts—or perhaps stupidity—forced me forward.
"Hey!" I Shouted.
The gun fired.
Pain erupted across my chest, and the world tilted sideways. Sirens blared. Shouts echoed. Chaos swirled around me.
Then—.
darkness.
So this is how I die.
Well, that's my life done for. I'm not even finished with my novel yet.