The responses to my sixth novel turned out better than I expected. Now that I'd finally bought a laptop, my writing efficiency had improved drastically. I even noticed my words flowing faster—no more squinting at tiny phone keys or battling autocorrect disasters.
My story was like any other in the genre, but readers kept saying the characters' emotional depth set it apart. Sometimes I'd catch myself rereading my own lines mid-edit, wondering, Did I really pour that much feeling into that dialogue?
I sank into my top-rated, plastic-frame gaming chair as the comment section loaded. I adjusted my posture, stretching my neck and cracking my knuckles, bracing for both praise and trolls. A faint whir from the cooling fan sighed behind me.
[Reader Comments – Chapter 189]
[HeartfeltScribe]
This chapter's emotional depth is unreal. I felt every single tear. It's honestly the only reason I'm still reading.
[TearsOfJoy]
You have no idea how much this hit me. The emotional depth alone has me hooked.
[SoulSeeker]
I downloaded this novel just for the feels. Emotional depth FTW!
[InkAndTears]
I don't usually comment, but the raw emotion here got me. Thank you for writing this.
"…"
I stared at the screen, mouth hanging open. My mind raced—Did I really write that line about lost siblings?
"Emotional depth?" I mumbled, voice barely louder than the fan.
"Wait… they're talking about my story?"
I leaned back, letting the chair creak under my weight. I rubbed my temples, blinking in disbelief.
"I thought people came for the action scenes and my garbage-tier jokes. Where are they finding emotional depth?"
Honestly, I had no clue what they meant by "emotional depth." I was just trying to make the MC argue with a vending machine that ate his last coin—and maybe sneaked in a sarcastic one-liner about ramen noodles. But hey, if that's what readers wanted, who was I to argue?
I shrugged, clicking to refresh. I'd just roll with it and pretend I was deep.
My novel followed the familiar arc: a weak MC grows stronger, battles demons, collects a harem, and so on. The structure was almost autopilot at this point—ticking boxes one after another.
Yet somehow it resonated—I even built a moderately big fandom. I'd wake up to new fan art tagged on social media or unexpected fanmail in my inbox.
"Huh?"
A new comment popped up.
[LetMeCook]
I don't get it… this isn't even a good story. It's full of obvious plot holes. How did this get so famous?
My eyes narrowed as I read. Irritation flared in my chest.
"But he's not wrong, is he? My story does have rushed chapters and glaring holes."
I clicked the reply section and gulped. It was flooded with more users backing LetMeCook and criticizing me—points about pacing, missing motivations, and even misnamed artifacts.
I leaned even farther back, tipping the chair onto its two rear legs. My heart pounded as I balanced precariously.
Those comments sank me deeper into the pit of self-doubt. But I reminded myself: plenty of readers still loved my work, and their support kept me going. I inhaled slowly, feeling the cool air of my fan brush past.
"My novel was near its finale—just a few cha-"
—KRACK!—
—KRACK!—
Before I even processed what was happening, the chair's legs snapped, and my ass went crashing to the floor.
"Khha-ha!"
My thighs banged against the desk, then:
—Ding—
My laptop smashed down onto my family jewels with full force.
"W-what… is… happening…"
My vision blurred. Pain locked my body in place. I tried to move my head—nothing.
My most precious assets… crushed. Future dreams… dangling by a thread. It hurt so much that for a moment, tears pricked my eyes.
"Am I going to die?"
"Honestly, my life's been one long hell, so if I die now, maybe it won't matter… right?"
Even in despair, a tiny spark urged me on: the desire to survive, to become someone people admired, someone loved. I imagined their messages: "Get well soon, author!"
My vision dimmed, and my body felt weightless.
"So this is what dying feels like…"
And what a ridiculous way to go—falling from a chair, then having your laptop demolish your two most important things. When people hear about this, they'll probably laugh for all the obvious reasons.
My eyes then slowly closed against my will….
. . . . .
—Chirp— chirp—
My eyes opened to the sound of birds chirping and the rays of sunlight falling on my face. In half-slumber, I realized I was napping at my desk.
"Must have been a bad dream."
Driven by muscle memory, my legs carried me toward the bathroom. With eyes still partly shut, I reached for the door handle and found something oddly different.
"The handle seems different than before—must be the sleep."
I pulled on the knob, but it didn't budge. Squinting, I noticed it was a round handle, not a lever.
"What—what?"
I rotated the lock and heard a satisfying click—the door swung open.
Instead of the familiar tiles and basin, a flood of bright sunlight hit my face. I shielded my eyes with an arm as birdsong grew louder.
And then reality struck.
"This isn't my apartment… Where am I?"
The place around me felt eerily foreign, every detail off by just enough to send a chill down my spine.