It was nine o'clock on a Saturday night, and I was having what could generously be called an "emotional vulnerability moment."
Or, less generously: I was crying while watching a romantic movie and eating ice cream straight from the tub, wearing a teddy bear print pajama set I'd bought in a moment of absolute weakness two days ago.
"NO!" I yelled at my laptop screen, waving my spoon. "Don't believe her! She's OBVIOUSLY lying! Look at her body language!"
The male lead on the screen, of course, didn't hear me and continued to believe the manipulative villainess.
"You're an IDIOT!" I said, taking another spoonful of chocolate ice cream. "A handsome idiot, but still an IDIOT!"
The movie was "Winter Heart"—a romantic drama that had come out three months ago and apparently broken box office records. I'd started watching it out of curiosity, wanting to see how this world's entertainment industry compared to my previous one.
I found that… it was quite similar. But also intensely different.
Because in this world, entertainment wasn't just popular—it was a cultural obsession.
Movies regularly grossed billions. TV series had budgets that would make Hollywood productions look like indie films. Sports filled stadiums with hundreds of thousands of people. And artists—singers, actors, athletes—were treated like modern royalty.
But what really caught me off guard were the martial arts.
In my previous world, martial arts were… well, a sport. Impressive, certainly, but limited by what the human body could physically do.
Here? It was a completely different story.
People in this world had something called "Internal Strength"—a kind of energy that could be cultivated through rigorous training, allowing feats that would normally be impossible. It wasn't supernatural like in cultivation novels where people flew and destroyed mountains. But it was definitely beyond normal human limits.
A skilled practitioner could take on fifty people and win using technique and enhanced physical strength alone. They could break stones with their bare hands. They could move fast enough to appear as a blur.
There was even a ranking system:
Martial Strength Ranks:
Rank F - Beginner. Slightly better physique than an average person. Minimal Internal Strength.
Rank E - Practitioner. Can fight three to five average people simultaneously.
Rank D - Adept. Noticeably increased strength and speed. Can take on ten people.
Rank C - Specialist. Can break bricks with bare hands. Capable of fighting twenty to thirty people.
Rank B - Master. Substantial Internal Strength. Can face fifty or more people. Considered elite.
Rank A - Grandmaster. Extremely rare. Strength that defies logic. Can face small armies.
Rank S - Legendary. Almost mythical. Perhaps one or two living people at this rank.
And the novel's protagonist—that idiot womanizer—was supposedly Rank A, approaching S.
Because of course he was.
There were even "Martial Academies" in larger cities where people could train, though most ordinary people never progressed past Rank E or D. It was like a gym, but for people who wanted to punch through walls.
Me, with my 34 Strength points? Probably wouldn't even register on the system. Maybe Rank F if I was lucky.
"Mental note," I murmured to myself, getting more ice cream. "Maybe consider basic martial training. Just so I'm not completely useless if something happens."
On the screen, the female lead had finally discovered the betrayal and was confronting the male lead in the rain.
"FINALLY!" I yelled. "You tell him, girl! SLAP HIM!"
She did. A resounding slap that echoed through my headphones.
"YES!" I punched the air with my spoon. "THAT! That is—"
And then she started crying, saying she still loved him.
"No, no, no, NO!" I was crying now too. "Don't go back to him! He doesn't DESERVE you!"
But of course, she did. Because it was a romantic movie and apparently emotional pain was mandatory.
I was in the middle of a particularly dramatic sob when my phone started vibrating on the nightstand next to the bed.
I grabbed it, seeing Marcus's name on the screen.
I quickly wiped my face—as if he could see me—and answered, trying to sound normal.
"Hello?" My voice definitely came out weepy and congested.
There was a pause on the other end.
And then: "Cassandra? Are you… are you crying?"
His voice also sounded weepy and congested.
I stopped. "Wait. You're crying?"
"I asked first," Marcus said, sniffling.
"I asked second," I retorted, grabbing a tissue from the box next to the bed. "Why are you crying?"
"Because of the video!" Marcus said, and I could clearly hear him sniffling. "I finished editing and watched the final version and it's so beautiful, Cassandra. Like, I cried. Again. For the fifth time. I'm a mess."
Despite my own tears, I laughed. "You cry a lot for a professional editor."
"You make me cry a lot," he corrected. "Now your turn. Why are you crying?"
"I'm watching Winter Heart," I admitted.
There was a moment of silence.
And then Marcus let out a groan. "Oh my GOD, that movie. I cried for an hour after watching it. The rain scene?"
"I JUST WATCHED THE RAIN SCENE!" I practically screamed.
"THE SLAP!" Marcus yelled back.
"I KNOW!"
We both fell silent for a moment, just emotionally sniffling.
"Okay," Marcus finally said, his voice still wet but trying to sound professional. "Okay, I called you for a reason. The video is ready."
My heart jumped. "Already?"
"Already," he confirmed. "I said I'd work fast. I literally spent the last forty-eight hours editing non-stop. Slept like, four hours total. I'm running on basically coffee and pure willpower at this point."
"Marcus—"
"No," he cut me off. "Don't tell me to rest more or anything like that. I needed to finish this. I was too invested. Besides, now it's done and it's perfect."
I sat up straighter in bed, my heart beating faster. "Can you send it to me?"
"I'm sending it as we speak," Marcus said. I heard keyboard clicks from his end. "Should be in your email in… okay, sent. It's a big file, so it might take a few minutes to download."
"Okay," I said, opening my laptop and navigating to my email.
"Listen," Marcus continued, "when you go to upload it to Wetube—and other social media channels, which you should do, by the way—just upload as usual. If you have any technical difficulties, just message me. I know a guy who knows another guy who does professional promotion for a reasonable price. Like, if you want an extra push to help it go viral, he can help."
"Okay," I said, making a mental note. "I'll let you know if I need it."
"And Cassandra?" Marcus's voice got serious. "This is important. Before you post the song anywhere, you need to copyright it. Put it in your name, make sure it's legally protected."
I paused. "Oh. I… hadn't even thought of that."
"That's why you have me," Marcus said. "There are a lot of bad actors out there who will steal your work if you give them the chance. Especially if it goes viral. People will make covers, use it in their own videos, maybe even try to claim it as their own."
A chill ran down my spine. I hadn't considered that. "How do I register it?"
"I'll send you a link," Marcus said. More keyboard clicks. "It's a government site for intellectual property registration. Super straightforward. You just fill in the info, upload the audio file, pay the fee—like fifty bucks—and you're done. You get confirmation within twenty-four hours."
My email pinged. The video had arrived, and right below it, another email from Marcus with a link.
"I'll do it right now," I said.
"Good," Marcus said, and I could hear the relief in his voice. "Okay, I'm going to hang up now because I'm literally falling over from exhaustion, but message me after you watch the video, okay? I need to know what you think."
"I will," I promised. "And Marcus? Thank you. For everything."
"Always," he said warmly. "Now go register that song before I have an anxiety attack on your behalf."
He hung up, and I immediately clicked on the link he'd sent.
The site loaded—National Intellectual Property Office. Basic government design, functional but not pretty.
There was a big button: "REGISTER NEW WORK".
I clicked.
A form appeared:
---
MUSICAL WORK REGISTRATION
Type of Work: ☐ Lyrics ☐ Composition ☐ Both
Title of Work:
Creator/Composer Name:
Date of Creation:
Description (Optional):
Audio File Upload: [Select File]
Registration Fee: $50
---
Okay. Straightforward enough.
I selected "Both" because technically the song had lyrics and composition.
Title of Work: Someone Like You
Creator/Composer Name: Cassandra Whitmore
For the creation date, I put the date when I had "created" the instrumental track—a week ago.
For the audio file, I needed just the music version, without the video. Marcus had included that in the email—a separate MP3 file of the full song with my voice and the instrumental.
I uploaded the file. It took a minute to process.
Then came the payment part. I entered my card details, paid the fifty dollars, and clicked "SUBMIT REGISTRATION".
The page loaded for a few seconds.
And then:
---
REGISTRATION SUCCESSFULLY SUBMITTED
Registration Number: MUS-2024-847392
Status: Pending Review
Estimated Processing Time: 24-48 hours
You will receive a confirmation email when your registration is approved.
---
"Done," I murmured, taking a screenshot of the confirmation page. "Officially my song now."
Well, it always was mine. Like, technically it was from another singer in my original world, but in this world? It was mine.
That thought still gave me a pang of guilt, but I pushed it down. I had made my choice. No use having regrets now.
With the registration done, I went back to the email and finally—finally—clicked on the video file Marcus had sent.
It took a few minutes to download. I spent that time finishing my ice cream and trying not to have a nervous breakdown.
When the download completed, I took a deep breath and clicked play.
The screen went black for a moment.
And then…
Oh.
Oh.
It was beautiful.
The video started with a slow fade in from black, revealing my face in a close-up. The lighting was perfect—soft but dramatic, creating subtle shadows that added depth. My eyes were closed, my features calm.
And then the music started.
The sound of the piano entered, and my eyes opened slowly.
Marcus had edited it perfectly—cutting between different angles smoothly, never distracting from the performance but adding visual interest. Close-ups during the intense emotional moments. Wider shots during the calmer parts.
The color grading was impeccable. Everything had a slightly bluish, melancholic tint that fit the song's emotion perfectly.
And my voice…
Even through the laptop speakers, it sounded incredible. Marcus had mixed it perfectly—my voice clear and present, the piano supporting but never overpowering.
When it got to the part where I had started crying during the recording, Marcus had kept that. The tears streaming down my face, the raw vulnerability in every expression.
It was intense. It was beautiful. It was real.
When the video ended—fade to black with the last piano note echoing—I realized I was crying again.
But this time they weren't tears of sadness over a silly romantic movie.
They were tears of… hope? Realization? Something in between.
Marcus was right.
This was special.
I quickly grabbed my phone and messaged him:
Me: Just watched it. Marcus. It's PERFECT. You're a genius. I'm crying again. You've turned me into a person who constantly cries now.
The reply came surprisingly fast for someone supposedly falling over from exhaustion:
Marcus: I KNOW IT'S PERFEITO. I told you! Now post that thing so the world can cry with me!! And then go SLEEP because your life is about to change. ❤️
Me: You need to sleep too!
Marcus: I'll sleep when I'm dead. Or after your video goes viral. Whichever comes first. NOW GO POST.
I laughed, wiping my tears.
He was right. It was time.
I opened a new tab and navigated to Wetube.
It was time to show the world what I could do.
But first?
First I needed more ice cream.
Priorities.