Click... Click... Click...
The sound of frantic typing filled the dark room. A single monitor glowed in the corner, casting sickly light across a landscape of devastation—crumpled ramen cups, crushed energy drink cans, and chip bags forming geological layers of neglect. The air was thick and stale, reeking of unwashed clothes and three-day-old takeout.
Hunched over the keyboard sat something that might have once been human. Greasy hair jutted out at odd angles like a diseased porcupine. Bloodshot eyes, ringed with bruise-dark circles, stared unblinking at the screen. His shirt—if you could call the stained rag a shirt—had holes in places holes shouldn't be. A thin line of drool had dried at the corner of his mouth.
He was disgusting. Pathetic. A walking disaster.
And he didn't give a single fuck.
His fingers hammered the keys with manic precision, a twisted grin spreading across his unwashed face as he scrolled through the comments section. "This is garbage." "How did you think this was worth publishing?" "My five-year-old writes better than this."
A laugh bubbled up from his throat—high-pitched, almost hysterical.
"You absolute fucking morons," he hissed at the screen, typing back with savage glee. "You're all so pathetically stupid you can't recognize genius when it's shoved in your worthless faces."
He leaned back, his chair creaking ominously under his weight, and grabbed another Red Bull. The can hissed as he cracked it open, and he took a long, aggressive gulp before slamming it down.
"Keep talking, peasants. Keep whining. You're all just jealous little shits." His voice rose, addressing the empty room like a king addressing his court. "You wish you had even a fraction of my talent. You're nothing. Less than nothing. You're the dirt beneath my fingernails—and trust me, there's a lot of fucking dirt there."
He cackled at his own joke, a sound somewhere between a villain's laugh and a hyena's shriek.
Another comment popped up: "Maybe try taking a creative writing class?"
His eyes narrowed to slits. "Creative writing class?" he spat, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I AM the fucking class, you brain-dead waste of oxygen. You couldn't write your way out of a grocery list if your life depended on it."
He hit send with so much force his desk shook.
More comments flooded in—some trying to offer constructive criticism, most just roasting him mercilessly. He responded to every single one with increasing venom, his grin growing wider and more unhinged with each insult he hurled back.
"Bitch, what do you know?" he muttered, demolishing another comment. "You wouldn't know a masterpiece if it bit you in the ass."
Then, buried in the avalanche of notifications, one comment made him pause.
It had no username. No profile picture. Just blank space where an account should be. And the words seemed to glow slightly brighter than the rest:
"Wanna change the storylines of billions of novels with your plot armor?"
He squinted at it, shoving his greasy hair out of his eyes. "The hell is this?"
His cursor hovered over the comment. Some new troll? Some idiot trying to be clever? He snorted. "Oh, you think you're special? Think you've got something interesting to say?"
But something about it nagged at him. The words pulsed on the screen, almost alive.
"Probably some bullshit scam," he muttered, but his curiosity—his damned, insatiable curiosity—got the better of him. "Whatever. Let's see what garbage you're selling."
He clicked.
The screen went black.
"You've got to be shitting me." He slammed his fist on the desk. "This piece of junk dies NOW?"
But then the monitor blazed back to life—not with his document, not with the comments section, but with swirling colors that didn't belong in any program he'd ever seen. Shapes twisted and folded in on themselves, pixels forming something that looked almost... alive.
A figure began to take shape, emerging from the chaos like smoke coalescing into shadow.
And then it spoke.
The voice was wrong—distorted, layered, like multiple voices speaking at once through a broken speaker.
"Wanna..." The screen flickered violently.
"...change..." His heart skipped.
"...the storylines..." His breath caught.
"...of billions..." Sweat prickled his neck.
"...of novels?"
He stared, frozen. Then the figure's tone deepened, dripping with something dark and dangerous:
"Penalty for failure? Your worthless existence erased. Every word you've written, forgotten. You've got a mouth, kid—but do you have the spine to back it up?"
For a moment—just a moment—genuine fear flickered across his face. His hands trembled. This wasn't some internet troll he could fire back at. This was... something else. Something real.
Then his grin returned, slower this time, but wider and more deranged than before.
"Hah..." A low chuckle. "Hahaha... HAHAHAHA!" The laugh built until it filled the room, manic and gleeful. He threw his head back, arms spread wide like a conductor before an orchestra of chaos. "Oh, you beautiful, stupid universe! You have NO fucking idea what you just offered me!"
His eyes glittered with feverish excitement as he leaned toward the screen. "Every single one of those trolls, every idiot who doubted me, every pathetic loser who said I couldn't write—" He jabbed a finger at the figure. "I'm going to prove them all wrong. I'm going to rewrite EVERYTHING. I'm going to make them all eat their words until they choke on them."
He slammed his hand down on the mouse, clicking without hesitation.
"Let's fucking go."
The world lurched.
His stomach dropped as the floor vanished beneath him. The walls dissolved into streams of light and data. He was falling—no, being pulled, yanked through reality itself like a fish on a hook. His vision spun, colors bleeding together, sound distorting into a high-pitched whine.
"Oh shit—oh SHIT—" The words tore from his throat as vertigo consumed him.
Then—impact.
He hit solid ground hard, the air punched from his lungs. Pain shot through his ribs. He gasped, rolled onto his hands and knees, and looked up.
"What... the fuck...?"
Space.
Not the empty void, but something alive with movement. Galaxies spiraled in every direction, stretching infinitely across a cosmic canvas. Nebulae glowed like neon signs. Constellations twisted and danced. He was standing on some kind of transparent platform suspended in this impossible expanse, Earth a distant blue marble far below.
His breath came in short gasps. This was real. This was actually fucking real.
A screen materialized in front of him, floating in midair. Glowing text scrolled across it:
NAME: [ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED]
STATUS: CONTRACTED
Most of the information was scrambled, hidden behind static and redacted blocks. But one line was crystal clear:
TITLE: Plot Armor Genius
He stared at it. Then he started laughing again—quieter this time, but no less insane.
"Damn right." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting blood from where he'd bitten his lip during the fall. "Plot Armor Genius. That's exactly what I am."
The screen flickered, and new text appeared:
"Welcome to the Plot Armor Agency. Your mission begins now. Failure means erasure. Success means everything."
He cracked his knuckles, that twisted grin still plastered across his filthy face. His heart was pounding—fear and excitement mixing into something intoxicating.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect." He looked out at the endless cosmos, at the swirling stories and worlds beyond counting. "Let's burn it all down and build something better. Something worthy of ME."
His reflection stared back at him from the transparent floor—greasy, pathetic, disgusting.
And absolutely certain he was better than everyone else.
"Just wait for me, peasants," he whispered to the universe, that manic grin stretching even wider. "Just fucking wait."