Sophia Smith sat at her desk, her tone gentle and professional as she guided a buyer through the quirks of her online shop's adult product catalog. Years of running her small e-commerce business had given her the patience to fend off most trolls and fake buyers looking for cheap thrills. Yet, every so often, someone came along whose cluelessness defied belief.

Like this guy.

**[Buyer]:** "Boss lady, I'm as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Can you tell me more about this... uh... Golden Shield of Abundance thing?"

Sophia squinted at the screen, her lips twitching into a smirk. 

"Nervous like a cat? Please," she muttered. "Try living every day like you're about to get audited by the IRS!"

Still, professionalism came first. She typed out a detailed description of the product, hoping to seal the deal. But then the buyer responded:

**[Buyer]:** "Thanks, boss lady! But my girlfriend's super intimidating. She won't let me use it on her. Can I use it on myself instead?"

Sophia froze. Blinking, she hesitated before typing back: "I guess so? But it's not designed for that. Use at your own risk."

**[Buyer]:** "No worries! As long as it fits, I'm good."

"And if it gets stuck?" Sophia shot back, a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

**[Buyer]:** "That's fine! My girlfriend's into that. She's a total queen."

"Oh, a certified masochist," Sophia sighed, watching as the buyer finalized the purchase. Out of grudging respect for their "true love," she even upgraded the packaging.

With the order complete, Sophia checked the time—it was nearly noon. She shut her laptop and decided to call her dad for lunch.

Sophia walked into the living room to find her dad glued to the TV. The screen displayed a news broadcast, the rapid-fire commentary a blur to her ears. At first, she didn't think much of it. But as she approached, she noticed her dad's sweaty forehead and how he awkwardly held the remote in front of his lap, as if shielding... something.

The blush on his face confirmed it.

"Dad…" Sophia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. She patted him on the shoulder and switched the channel to a more wholesome program. "How about we cut back on… those kinds of videos, yeah? Mistaking a news program for your private stash is... dedication, I guess."

Red-faced and mumbling, her dad sank behind the sofa, hiding his embarrassment. Taking pity on him, Sophia headed to the kitchen to scrounge up some lunch. Grilled cheese sandwiches it was—again.

Not long after, her father emerged from his hiding spot, calm and composed as if nothing had happened. Without a word, he tied on his apron and gently nudged Sophia out of the kitchen.

Sophia grinned. Her dad's cooking skills were leagues above hers, and she wasn't about to argue. Cheerfully, she plopped onto the couch, flipping through TV channels until her phone buzzed.

The caller ID read Security Guard Jack.

"Hello?"

A booming voice came through. "Hey, is this Little Smith?"

Sophia's eye twitched. "...Please call me Big Smith."

It was a sore subject. Growing up with the last name Smith had been a cruel joke. From childhood taunts of "Little Smith the turtle" to the inevitable "Old Smith" nickname waiting in her future, it was a curse she couldn't escape.

"Whatever," Jack grunted. "Your dad left his book at the security desk. Should I bring it over, or are you picking it up?"

Sophia wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to be lazy. Sweetly, she said, "Oh, Brother Jack, you're so charming and generous! Surely you wouldn't mind bringing it over for me?"

Ten minutes later, Jack arrived with the book.

The title was ridiculous: The Apocalypse Chronicles: A Lustful Rebirth. The cover was equally over-the-top, featuring a scantily-clad woman wielding a chainsaw against a horde of zombies.

Flipping through the pages, Sophia's expression shifted from horror to pity. By the time she reached the third chapter, she felt an odd mix of guilt and resignation.

With the book in hand, she marched into the kitchen.

"Dad," she began solemnly, "I'm so sorry. It's my fault you've been lonely all these years. I'll find you a stepmom soon, I swear!"

Her father froze mid-stir, glaring at her. "What nonsense are you spouting now? Need money again?"

"No, I mean it!"

"Whatever it is, no. You're broke? Fine, I'll just adopt a richer daughter."

"..."

Unfazed, Sophia slapped the book onto the counter. "Explain this. Jack said it's yours. Didn't know you were into... this."

Her dad's brows furrowed as he stared at the gaudy cover. Finally, he sighed, voice heavy with despair.

"All of this—every page of that trash—is because of you."

"Me?" Sophia frowned. "What does this nonsense have to do with me?"

"Everything! The villain in that story? Same name as you. Same single-parent background. Same violin lessons and low IQ. Honestly, I think someone wrote it just to drag you through the mud!"

"Pfft, it's just a coincidence."

"Coincidence?!" Her dad's voice rose. "You're practically living her tragic arc—dumped, humiliated, friendless—do you want your story to end in suicide or family massacre, huh?"

Sophia fled to her room with the book, determined to prove him wrong. She read straight through the night, closing the book just as the clock struck midnight.

Her verdict?

"What a mess…"

The villainess who shared her name had endured every imaginable horror: betrayed by her fiancé, robbed of her father's base, infected by zombies, and gruesomely killed. It was a trainwreck of humiliation and despair.

"Unreal," Sophia muttered, burying her face in her pillow. As sleep claimed her, she thought, At least it's over now.