The apartment was a damn shithole. No, that's being polite. It was a goddamn warzone. Empty beer cans, stale pizza boxes, and crumpled-up papers thrown everywhere like confetti at a funeral. The air had that stale, "I haven't opened a window in weeks" smell. In the middle of it all sat Nathan—rubbing his eyes like he was trying to dig out the last shred of dignity from his soul.

He used to look sharp, man. Had that whole brooding genius thing going on. Now? He looked like someone who'd seen the depths of hell and was just waiting for a sign to give up.

His phone buzzed. A voicemail. Great. He knew exactly who it was. Her.

"Hey, Nathan..." Her voice was all shaky and pathetic, like she was trying not to cry but failing miserably. "I don't know how to say this, but... it's over between us. It's not you... I swear. I just—"

He didn't even let her finish. He didn't need to hear the rest. His brain automatically tuned her out, and to be honest, it was probably a mercy. She was just another rich, spoiled brat who only cared about herself. Nathan wasn't stupid enough to think this was some deep love story. It was fun while it lasted—good for a quick shag, but that's about it.

"Whatever." He tossed his phone onto the desk, flipping the screen so it faced down. He didn't need to see her name anymore. "Not even surprised. She was a two-time gold medalist in the 'shallow as a kiddie pool' Olympics. Too good-looking to think straight. I was just a pit stop. I'll live."

But still... something ate at him. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't give a shit anymore. Maybe it was the harsh reality of watching his life fall apart one stupid decision at a time. He grabbed his last cigarette. Empty.

"Of course." He groaned, spinning in his chair. It was time to deal with real problems.

The phone buzzed again. It was his manager. Harrison Walters. Fucking classic.

"Nathan, you absolute moron!" Harrison screamed through the speaker, his voice high-pitched and panic-stricken. "What the hell did you say to those writers? They're threatening to quit because you're making their lives a living hell. I'm going broke because of your big mouth! You can't just keep running your mouth about how garbage their work is!"

Nathan let out a long, exaggerated sigh. Here we go again.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I hurt their feelings?" He leaned back, throwing his hands up in mock apology. "*Maybe they shouldn't have written that piece of dogshit they call a plot. Oh, and don't even get me started on the hero who's got all the depth of a puddle in a desert. If they want compliments, they should try doing something worth complimenting.**"

Harrison's voice was getting higher, practically screeching now. "You can't just tear apart everything, Nathan. Not everyone has the balls to take criticism like you."

"Oh, cry me a fucking river," Nathan cut him off. "Maybe if you actually paid me for writing, I wouldn't have to be stuck with these third-rate hacks, making me feel like I'm living in some twisted version of hell. You hired me because I'm the best, not your little art teacher. Let me do my damn job, or you can go find another cash cow to milk, Harrison."

Nathan slammed the phone down with more force than necessary, a little surge of adrenaline running through him. What a fucking joke. He wasn't about to let a bunch of glorified kindergarten scribblers drag him down.

Of course, just as the silence started settling in, another call came through. This time, the contact name was "Sir Dumbass." Nathan knew exactly who this was.

"Hey, Nathan! What do you think of my book?" the perky voice greeted him, the idiot practically vibrating with excitement. "I'm really hoping for your feedback!"

Nathan didn't even bother pretending to care. "Oh, your book?" He let out a dry laugh, the bitterness dripping off every word. "What the hell is there to think about? It's like a sad, wet napkin you tried to pass off as a novel. You got a deadbeat hero who can't even tie his own shoelaces, and the side characters are so underdeveloped they might as well be cardboard cutouts. The plot? Don't get me started—it's like reading a phonebook with a couple of typos. You're calling this a story?"

There was a long pause on the other end. It wasn't awkward—it was just expected. The guy didn't know what to say, because deep down, he probably knew Nathan was right.

"Oh, yeah? Think you can do better?" The challenge came out like a petulant child who'd been caught stealing candy.

Nathan's fingers twitched as he resisted the urge to rip the phone in half. "You really wanna go there, pal?" He sneered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I've got actual stories stuck in my head. Stories that don't need to rely on cheap fanfiction tropes and a hero who's as interesting as a wet sock. Ever heard of The Novel Extra? Or TAPOV? You know, stories with actual depth, actual character development? That's the shit I'm talking about. You? You're just lucky someone's still listening to your delusional ranting."

He could practically hear the other guy's brain trying to process the words. Nathan wasn't going to let up. The frustration was eating at him. This was supposed to be his job, his damn passion, and here he was, stuck working for idiots who couldn't even get a story right.

"You just wait," he said ominously. "One day, you'll wish I was the one writing for you. But by then, I'll be too busy doing actual, meaningful work, writing something that doesn't make me wanna drink bleach. Maybe I'll even work with real projects. Who knows? Until then, have fun with your shitty little book."

With a satisfied sigh, Nathan ended the call and tossed his phone aside. He grabbed his jacket and stumbled out the door, already feeling the familiar buzz of alcohol filling his bloodstream from last night's half-hearted binge. It was a cold night, but honestly, the chill felt like it was nothing compared to the frozen shitshow his life had become.

He wandered aimlessly down the empty street, kicking trash cans and mumbling under his breath about how life sucked, about how he was stuck in this dead-end job because of a few stupid decisions. Rent overdue. Bills piling up. No chance of getting into something decent like Extra Descent or Third-Rate Villain.

"Fucking hell, man." He sighed, rubbing his eyes as his head started to spin. "Just wanna work on something that doesn't make me wanna crawl under a rock and die. Maybe get a taste of the good life for once."

That's when he heard it—the low growl of a truck engine speeding toward him. Before he even had a chance to move, the headlights hit him full force. His heart dropped into his stomach.

But as if by some miracle, he wasn't dead yet. Instead, the truck swerved, skidding to a halt. The door opened. Out stepped a guy dressed in a neon pink suit with a matching mask.

"Impeccable record, huh?" the guy said with a smirk, his voice full of amusement. "Guess you're lucky I showed up. You got other things to worry about now."

Before Nathan could respond, a bullet hit him square in the chest. He didn't even have time to scream.

A/N – No sarcasm about those "esteemed books." Anyway, I've been working on world-building and characters, but not in the usual way. Drop your reviews and thoughts to help steer the story forward. See you Monday!