Marin had always been the kind of person who cared little about the world around him. He was self-absorbed, driven by his own ambitions, and rarely let anything—or anyone—distract him from his goals. But that day, everything changed. The moment he saw *him*, Marin snapped out of his usual indifference. It was as if the world had shifted, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.
---
**Four Months Earlier**
The hallway was a blur of fluorescent lights and echoing footsteps. Marin sprinted through the crowd, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. His pale skin flushed red, and his light blue eyes darted frantically as he pushed past people. To anyone watching, he must have looked like a madman—someone on the verge of collapse or fleeing from some unseen danger. But Marin wasn't running from anything. He was running *toward* something. Something that could change his life forever.
"Marin! Marin!" a voice called out behind him. It was Bilal, his best friend and constant companion. Bilal's dark hair was disheveled, and his face was a mix of concern and exasperation. "Where have you been? We're almost out of time! Hurry up!"
Marin didn't respond. He couldn't. His lungs burned, and his legs felt like they might give out at any moment. But he couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he was so close.
The two boys burst into the arena, a sprawling space filled with people in elaborate costumes. It looked like a scene from a fantasy novel—vibrant colors, intricate designs, and an air of excitement that buzzed through the room. Marin's eyes scanned the crowd, searching for one person. And then he saw him.
There, in a corner of the room, stood Kim Joon-ho, the renowned author who had inspired Marin to pick up a pen in the first place. Kim was signing autographs for a small group of fans, his face a mask of polite professionalism. But Marin could see the weariness in his eyes, the subtle tension in his smile. This was a man who had grown tired of the spotlight but couldn't escape it.
Marin grabbed Bilal's arm and dragged him through the crowd, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. When they finally reached Kim, Marin hesitated for a moment. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for.
"Sir," Marin said softly, his voice trembling as he held out a worn notebook. "I'm an aspiring writer, and you've been my inspiration. I was wondering if you could read this before I publish it. I'd be honored to hear your thoughts."
Kim raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the request. He took the notebook and flipped through the pages, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he nodded. "Okay," he said simply. "I'll take a look."
Marin's face lit up with a grin so wide it almost hurt. He turned to Bilal, who was standing beside him, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.
"Are you sure about this?" Bilal whispered, his voice low and cautious. "He's your idol, sure, but what if he's not what he seems? What if he's just another fraud hiding behind a smile?"
Marin shook his head, his confidence unwavering. "Don't worry. I trust him."
Bilal sighed, forcing a smile as he looked at his friend. Marin was so innocent, so full of hope. He hadn't yet learned how cruel the world could be, and Bilal wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to teach him.
---
**Present Day**
The book was a success. Marin's debut novel had taken the literary world by storm, and he was suddenly thrust into the spotlight he had always dreamed of. But fame came with a price. The more he rose, the more he began to see the cracks in the world he had once idolized.
Kim's feedback had been brief and dismissive—"It's okay," he had said—but Marin had clung to those words like a lifeline. Now, as he sat in his apartment, surrounded by accolades and empty champagne bottles, he couldn't help but wonder if Bilal had been right all along.
The doorbell rang, pulling Marin from his thoughts. He opened the door to find Bilal standing there, a knowing smile on his face.
"Still not giving a care about anything except yourself?" Bilal teased, stepping inside.
Marin laughed, but there was a sadness in his eyes. "Maybe I'm starting to see that there's more to life than just me."
Bilal clapped him on the shoulder. "Took you long enough."
As the two friends sat down to talk, Marin realized that fame wasn't the answer he had been searching for. It was the people who had been there all along—the ones who saw him for who he truly was—that mattered most.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the real story worth telling.
---
**Weeks after**
The weeks following the release of my debut novel were a whirlwind. Overnight, I went from being an unknown aspiring writer to the literary world's newest sensation. My face was on magazine covers, my name trended on social media, and my inbox was flooded with interview requests and fan messages. It was everything I had ever dreamed of—and yet, it felt nothing like I had imagined.
---
**The First Interview**
I sat in a brightly lit studio, the glare of the cameras making me squint. The host, a woman with a perfectly polished smile, leaned forward in her chair, her eyes fixed on me like I was the most fascinating person in the world.
"So, Marin," she began, her voice dripping with enthusiasm, "your novel has taken the world by storm. What inspired you to write it?"
I hesitated for a moment, my mind racing. The truth was, I had poured my heart and soul into that book. It was a story about ambition, betrayal, and the cost of success—themes that felt all too real to me now. But I couldn't say that. Not here. Not in front of millions of viewers.
"I've always been fascinated by the idea of chasing your dreams," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I wanted to explore what happens when you achieve them—and what you might lose along the way."
The host nodded, her smile widening. "And what about Kim Joon-ho? Rumor has it he was one of your biggest inspirations. Is that true?"
My stomach tightened at the mention of his name. Kim had been my idol, my guiding light. But since the release of my book, I hadn't heard a word from him. No congratulations, no feedback—nothing. It was as if he had vanished from my life as quickly as he had entered it.
"Yes," I said, forcing a smile. "Kim Joon-ho is an incredible writer, and his work has always inspired me. I'm grateful for his influence."
The host seemed satisfied with my answer, and the interview moved on. But as I sat there, answering questions and smiling for the cameras, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.
---
Later that evening, I sat in my apartment, scrolling through social media. My timeline was filled with praise for my book, but one post caught my eye. It was from a well-known literary critic, and the headline made my blood run cold:
**"Marin's Debut: A Promising Start or a Copycat's Work?"**
I clicked on the article, my heart pounding. The critic didn't outright accuse me of plagiarism, but the implication was clear. They pointed out similarities between my book and Kim Joon-ho's early works, suggesting that I had borrowed too heavily from his style.
I slammed my laptop shut, my hands trembling. This wasn't supposed to happen. I had worked so hard to create something original, something that was entirely my own. And now, people were questioning my integrity.
--
The next day, Bilal showed up at my door, his expression grim. He didn't say a word as he handed me his phone, the screen displaying the same article I had read the night before.
"I told you," he said, his voice low and serious. "I told you to be careful with him. Now look what's happening."
I shook my head, refusing to believe it. "It's just one critic," I said, though my voice lacked conviction. "They're just trying to stir up drama."
Bilal sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Marin, you need to wake up. This isn't just about one critic. This is about your reputation. If people start thinking you're a copycat, it could ruin your career."
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was overreacting. But deep down, I knew he was right. The literary world was ruthless, and one misstep could be enough to destroy everything I had worked for.
---
Determined to set the record straight, I reached out to Kim Joon-ho. To my surprise, he agreed to meet me at a quiet café in the city. When I arrived, he was already there, sitting at a corner table with a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Marin," he said, nodding as I approached. "I've been expecting you."
I sat down, my heart racing. "I need to know," I said, cutting straight to the point. "Did you really think my book was okay? Or was it just another way to brush me off?"
Kim studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Your book was fine," he said. "But it wasn't great. And if you want to survive in this industry, you need to be more than just fine."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I had spent months pouring my heart into that book, and to hear him dismiss it so casually was devastating.
"But you inspired me," I said, my voice trembling. "
After that, it was a mystery how I reached home, everything was just going sideways for me, the word Kim said keep echoing in my mind.
"Your book was fine. But it wasn't great."* Fine. Not great. The words stung more than any criticism I had ever received. I had spent months pouring my heart into that book, and to hear him dismiss it so casually felt like a betrayal.
But as much as I wanted to wallow in self-pity, I didn't have the luxury. The literary world was relentless, and the backlash from that critic's article was only growing. Social media was ablaze with debates about my work, and every interview I gave seemed to dig me deeper into a hole.
---
**The Second Interview**
I sat across from another interviewer, this time a man with a sharp suit and an even sharper tongue. His questions were pointed, designed to provoke, and I could feel the tension in the room as he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
"Marin," he began, his tone dripping with skepticism, "there's been a lot of talk about the similarities between your work and Kim Joon-ho's early novels. How do you respond to the accusations that your book is, well, derivative?"
I clenched my fists under the table, forcing myself to stay calm. "Every writer is influenced by those who came before them," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "But my book is my own. It's a product of my experiences, my thoughts, and my voice."
The interviewer raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "And what about Kim Joon-ho's recent comments? He's been quoted as saying your work lacks originality. How do you feel about that?"
I froze. Kim had spoken to the press? About me? My mind raced, trying to process the information. When had this happened? And why hadn't he told me?
"I… I wasn't aware of those comments," I said, my voice faltering for the first time. "But I respect Kim Joon-ho's opinion. He's a brilliant writer, and I've always admired his work."
The interviewer smirked, sensing weakness. "Admiration is one thing, Marin. But imitation? That's a different story."
---
The word from the interviewer was so infuriating, how could he say the work I spend my time writing is nothing more than a cheap imitation.
By the time I got home, I was seething. I threw my bag onto the floor and paced the room, my mind racing. How could Kim do this to me? After everything I had done to prove myself, after all the hours I had spent perfecting my craft, he had the audacity to call me unoriginal?
I grabbed my phone and dialed his number, my hands trembling with anger. He answered on the third ring, his voice calm and measured.
"Marin," he said, as if nothing was wrong. "What can I do for you?"
"What can you do for me?" I snapped, my voice rising. "How about explaining why you're trashing me in the press? I thought you were supposed to be my mentor, not my critic!"
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I thought he might hang up. But then he sighed, his tone softening. "Marin, I'm not trashing you. I'm trying to help you."
"Help me?" I repeated, incredulous. "By telling the world my book isn't original? How is that helping me?"
"Because it's the truth," he said, his voice firm. "And if you want to grow as a writer, you need to hear it. You can't keep hiding behind your idolization of me. You need to find your own voice."
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But deep down, I knew he had a point. My book *had* been influenced by his work—too influenced, perhaps. And if I wanted to prove myself, I needed to do more than just imitate him.
---
Later that night, Bilal showed up at my apartment with a bottle of wine and a sympathetic smile. He had always been my rock, the one person I could count on no matter what. And right now, I needed him more than ever.
"Rough day?" he asked, handing me a glass of wine.
I nodded, sinking into the couch. "You could say that."
He sat down beside me, his expression serious. "Look, Marin, I know this is hard. But maybe Kim's right. Maybe you need to stop trying to be him and start being you."
I frowned, turning to face him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, your book was good. But it wasn't *you*. It was Kim Joon-ho 2.0. And if you want to be great, you need to stop chasing his shadow and start carving your own path."
His words hit me like a revelation. For the first time, I realized that my obsession with Kim had been holding me back. I had been so focused on living up to his legacy that I had forgotten to create my own.
---
**A New Beginning**
The next morning, I woke up with a renewed sense of purpose. I grabbed my notebook and started writing, not with Kim's voice in my head, but with my own. The words flowed freely, unfiltered and unapologetic. For the first time in months, I felt like myself again.
As I wrote, I realized that this was just the beginning. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but I was ready to face it—not as Kim Joon-ho's protégé, but as Marin, the writer I was meant to be.
---
The days turned into weeks, and I threw myself into my writing with a fervor I hadn't felt in years. No longer shackled by the need to emulate Kim Joon-ho, I began to explore themes and ideas that were deeply personal to me. My notebook filled with fragments of stories—raw, unfiltered, and unapologetically mine. But as much as I tried to convince myself that I was on the right path, doubt still lingered in the back of my mind.
--
I sat at my desk, staring at the screen of my laptop. The cursor blinked mockingly, as if daring me to type something—anything. I had been working on a new story, one that was entirely my own, but the words refused to come together. Every sentence felt forced, every paragraph a struggle.
"Maybe I'm not cut out for this," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "Maybe Kim was right. Maybe I'm just… fine."
Bilal, who had been lounging on the couch with a book, looked up at me. "You're not fine, Marin," he said, his tone firm. "You're better than fine. You just need to stop overthinking it."
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one trying to write a masterpiece."
Bilal set his book aside and walked over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You don't need to write a masterpiece. You just need to write something honest. Something that comes from you, not from what you think people want to hear."
His words struck a chord, and I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he was right. Maybe I had been trying too hard to prove myself, to live up to expectations that weren't even mine to begin with.
--
Later that week, I decided to take a break from writing and clear my head. I wandered into a small, independent bookstore tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside, and the scent of old books and coffee filled the air.
I browsed the shelves, my fingers trailing over the spines of countless novels. Each one felt like a reminder of the world I was trying to break into—a world that still felt just out of reach.
"Can I help you find something?"
I turned to see a woman standing behind the counter. She was in her late twenties, with dark, curly hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. Her name tag read *"Lena."*
"Just browsing," I said, forcing a smile. "I'm a writer, so… I guess I'm always looking for inspiration."
Lena raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smirk. "A writer, huh? Published?"
I nodded, though the admission felt heavier than it should have. "Yeah. My debut came out a few months ago."
Her eyes lit up with recognition. "Wait, you're Marin, aren't you? The guy who wrote *Echoes of the Horizon*?"
I blinked, surprised that she knew who I was. "Yeah, that's me."
Lena leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. "I read your book. It was… interesting."
I winced at the lukewarm praise. "Interesting? That's one way to put it."
She laughed, a warm, genuine sound that put me at ease. "Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad. But it felt like you were holding back, like you were trying to be someone you're not."
Her words echoed Bilal's, and I felt a pang of frustration. Was it that obvious to everyone but me?
"Look," Lena continued, her tone softening, "if you ever want to talk about writing—or anything else—I'm here. I run a writers' group that meets every Thursday. You should come."
I hesitated, unsure if I was ready to share my work with strangers. But something about Lena's confidence and sincerity made me want to give it a try.
"Maybe I will," I said, surprising myself.
---
That Thursday, I found myself sitting in a circle of chairs in the back of Lena's bookstore. The group was small but diverse, with writers of all ages and backgrounds. As I listened to them share their work, I was struck by the honesty and vulnerability in their words. These people weren't trying to impress anyone—they were simply telling their stories.
When it was my turn, I hesitated, clutching my notebook like a lifeline. But then I remembered Bilal's advice: *"Write something honest."*
I took a deep breath and began to read.
The room fell silent as I spoke, my voice trembling at first but growing stronger with each word. When I finished, there was a moment of quiet before Lena broke the silence.
"That," she said, her eyes shining with approval, "was *you.*"
---
As I left the bookstore that night, I felt a sense of clarity I hadn't experienced in months. For the first time, I understood what it meant to write from the heart—to tell a story that was truly mine.
But as I walked home, my phone buzzed with a notification. It was an email from my publisher, and the subject line made my stomach drop:
**"Urgent: We need to talk about your next book."**
---
This chapter deepens Marin's internal conflict, introduces Lena as a mentor figure, and sets up new challenges for him to face. It also hints at the growing pressure from his publisher, which will be explored in future chapters. Let me know if you'd like to expand on any specific elements or develop Chapter 5!
Pls like my book, this is the first time I am writing this type of genre, so like my book so I can have the motivation to write more chapters