"So, we can read each other's thoughts now? Interesting..."
"You really think you can out-cheat me with this trick? Cute."
"As if I'd bother." – Shan smirked like he just finished the last biscuit out of spite.
[Static noise. TV glitches. A news anchor barges in, sweating existential dread.]
"Uh—hey! Hey! We've got breaking updates from our sources—something about meteors, cockroaches learning politics, and the author finally losing it—"
'This world is doomed, y'all!' – proclaims the ever-unstable author-san, via loudspeaker from his bathroom.
"Man, this author guy's a real menace." – Kids in unison, sipping Capri Sun like it's holy nectar.
"Let's show him who's boss. Gather at Anteiku. Someone call Mr. X. Time to rewrite fate."
LET'S RECREATE... DAILY LIFE OF A MORTAL KING.
Editor-san barges in, tie half-tied, eyebags darker than Gotham:
"CUT CUT CUT! Readers' attention spans are shorter than their… dick dizes."
He sighs, adjusting his specs and powdered nose.
"Novels are read mostly by women now..it would be boobies
—try adding feelings or at least one hot vampire..."
[Scene: Ramu Chai Darbaar – post-apocalyptic edition]
Mumbai's on fire. Not metaphorically. Literal fire. Meteors falling. Dogs doing taxes. People still arguing over who makes better vlogs.
But me?
I sip my cutting chai like it's the last drop of sanity left in this simulation.
[Curtains fall. Audience waits. And waits. 4 months later…]
Crowd erupts:
"You made us wait FOUR DAMN MONTHS and gave us THIS? Not even a chapter—just a broken fever dream!"
Tomatoes fly. One hits me. Another. I don't dodge. I welcome them.
For once, I'm receiving something from you freeloaders.
I gather them like war trophies, load them into my tempo.
Off to the wholesale market.
Gotta make rent somehow.
Until we meet again... or until the algorithm blesses me.