Chapter 2: You Can't Fix Stupid — Or Crazy with a Gun
Ever since I was little, I always thought fate was a steaming pile of bull.
I mean, if someone is writing my destiny, does that mean I've been living on someone else's script the whole time?
No free will? No choices? Just a meat puppet jerked around by the universe's drunk screenwriter?
Yeah, no. Screw that noise.
I call the shots.
The good, the bad, the absolute dumpster fires — all of it? Mine. I own it.
I was born free. And if anyone says otherwise, they can kiss my—
Ahem.
Right. That got a little heavy. Let's try this again.
Hi, I'm Riven Vale.
Formerly someone else, but trust me, Riven slaps harder.
I'm an online content editor for this platform called WebQuill — a digital landfill of fiction where you sometimes find a diamond and often step in creative dog shit.
I live in a cluttered apartment with an unholy sleep schedule and currently…
I'm being held at gunpoint.
By a deranged author.
In front of my own damn door.
You heard me right.
What crime did I commit?
I rejected his work for a contest prize.
Now, to be clear — I wasn't the only one. The judging panel had eleven editors. But out of all of them, he came gunning for me.
Literally.
I did manage to tap out an SOS on my phone before he yanked it away, so the cops should be here soon.
But judging by the look in this guy's eyes… I'm not sure I've got "soon" in me.
"Tell me why?!"
He's shouting, red in the face, spittle flying.
"…Ain't nothin' but a heartache?"
SLAP.
Open palm. Full contact. Left cheek's on fire.
Okay, I might've deserved that. The guy's clearly unhinged, and I went full karaoke.
No regrets though. I'm hilarious.
"Tell me why?!"
"Ain't nothin' but a mistake~"
I couldn't help it, okay?!
He lobbed it. I had to spike it. Backstreet Boys compels me.
SLAP.
That one drew blood. Mouthful of copper. Still worth it.
"Don't joke around, you fucker! Tell me — why didn't I win?!"
And there it is. His villain origin story.
The guy's name? Tom. Because of course it is.
He's the most average guy you've never remembered. The kind of dude who's invisible at parties and forgettable in line at Starbucks.
And yet here he is, pointing a pistol at my face because his self-insert fantasy epic didn't get a trophy.
"Why didn't I win?!" he shouts again, voice cracking. The gun trembles in his hand. Not ideal.
I raise my hands. Non-threatening smile. I'm channeling my inner hostage negotiator.
"Tom, buddy, I don't know, okay? There were ten other editors. It wasn't just me."
"Tsk! Fine. Then why you? Why didn't you vote for me?"
This dude is spiraling.
Maybe I can stall him by giving him what he wants.
A little honesty, a little sugar, a little psychological warfare.
Time to manipulate a lunatic.
Editor Mode: ON.
"Now, before I say anything," I begin, "this is just my opinion. It doesn't matter as long as you believe in your work."
He nods, slowly. The gun doesn't lower, but his breathing evens out.
Good.
"Your writing quality was solid," I lie smoothly. "But your plot… didn't quite land."
That was half-lie, half-truth. Reality? His writing was a dumpster inferno and the plot was so cliché I got secondhand embarrassment.
But I spoon-fed him the criticism with a pacifier on it.
Why not just lie completely?
Because I couldn't read him. If he caught the lie, he might snap. But half-truths? Easier to swallow.
"Now," I add, "if you let me be your editor, your next story? Guaranteed winner."
Horseshit, but convincing.
He relaxes slightly. Might've even smiled.
"I'll help you write it," I say warmly. "We'll fix the pacing, clean up the characters—"
"What did you say?" he interrupts.
"…Eh?"
"What the fuck did you say about my plot not being good?!"
Oh no.
I didn't calm him down.
I primed the nuke.
"I-I didn't mean anything bad! Just needs a little polishing!"
SLAM.
He punches the wall next to me.
Gun's still on my face.
"Shut up, Riven! It doesn't need fixing! It's PERFECT!"
Oh. My. God.
He's one of those authors.
The ones who think they're literary gods because they invented a brooding swordsman named Shadowblade Darkfang.
I hate them. I loathe them.
But I swallow my rage. Gotta stay alive.
"You hear me?! It's a masterpiece!"
Okay, fuck this.
"You call that a masterpiece?!" I snap. "It was garbage! Bland characters! Predictable story! Your MC had the personality of a potato chip!"
My mouth runs wild. Rant mode unlocked.
"I didn't finish reading it, but I can guarantee it ended with a cliché twist and a forced romance arc!"
I exhale.
That… felt good.
Until I saw his face.
He's not angry. Not really.
He's hurt.
"How could you say that?" he whispers. "Of all people…"
What?
"Wha—what do you mean? It's just an opinion. You can still submit next year, man—"
"Shut up! Just shut up!"
Okay. Cool. He's broken. I'm screwed.
I shut up. And yeah — may or may not have pissed myself a little.
"You think I care about a contest?!"
"I wanted to show the world a story that mattered! Something real!"
He's ranting. His voice is cracked, eyes wild.
"The characters were alive! The story was beautiful! Maybe it's you who forgot what it means to live!"
What the hell is he on about now?
Eighth-grade syndrome? Full anime villain mode?
"T-Tom, what are you talking about?" I ask nervously.
CLICK.
He pulls the hammer back. Gun to my forehead.
I'm going to die. Right here. Over a bad novel.
"T-T-Tom! I'll publish your story! I'll help you rewrite it! We'll make the world see—"
"It's too late," he says quietly. "You've forgotten yourself. I'll make you remember."
WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?!
"Casting Time Reversal and Parallel Timeline Rebirth will cost me. Maybe half my life. But I'll do it."
He's glowing.
Like, actually glowing.
White light bleeds from his body. His grin widens.
"Show me a better story this time. And don't die before the ending."
"Stop—!"
I reach for the gun.
BANG.
Too late.
Everything slows.
I fall. I don't feel the pain. No panic. No breath.
Just… black.
The last thing I see is Tom's smile as the world fades.
Tom stands over my body.
No more grin. Just sadness.
"Finish the story you started," he whispers. "Put an end to all of this."
"Police! Open up!"
A voice booms from the hallway.
"Or we're coming in!"
Tom closes his eyes.
His body begins to dissolve — into light, into nothing.
Gone. Like he was never there at all.
CRASH.
The cops bust in.
But all they find is a dead man on the floor.
Dark hair. Mid-twenties. Gunshot wound to the head.
No bullet.
No residue.
No killer.
Just a guy with an unfinished story.
My name was Riven Vale.
I was a web fiction editor with a broken sleep cycle and a sarcastic streak.
And I'm not the protagonist of the story you're about to read.
But I was the first to die for it.