Okay, let us set aside the tiramisu for a while.
After getting inside Mr. Aresé's undeniably expensive black sedan, the kind that makes you question whether being a nepo baby is better than growing up with hardworking parents, I suddenly felt my stomach flip.
The message from the admin of that cheap novel site was still fresh in my mind, forcing me to rethink what kind of story structure I had just created. Because, honestly, it was all just nonsense about corrupt politics. Nothing deep. Nothing intentional.
Just… nonsense.
Throughout the ride, I stayed silent. The cold tiramisu was tucked carefully in my arms, secured like it was the last thing I owned in this world. I didn't trust him not to steal it. I already lost lasagna before. I was not about to lose tiramisu too.
Aside from telling him where I lived, I suggested that he just drop me off outside our subdivision gate.
Kindly, he agreed.
It was better that way. No need for him to go inside, no unnecessary attention, no leaving behind identification at the guardhouse. Also, let's be practical, it's a waste of diesel. (You know what I mean...)
"I contacted you because your novel caught someone's attention."
The moment I got inside my room, the house empty since my parents were out, I immediately checked my phone again. The admin had replied almost instantly.
"You know we value your privacy, but your novel is currently under investigation. We believe what you wrote is purely fictional and a product of your imagination. However, several familiar connections were found. The details will be discussed further by a detective. Here is his email link: link[1]"
Several familiar connections were found?
What does that even mean? That I did something questionable? Did I set someone's house on fire? Caused a happy couple to broke up? Of just maybe, another...
Well… I did. Once. Twice. Okay, maybe three times. But that's not the point.
I didn't write anything impressive in that novel. It was just chaos. A whole mess of bromance between the main hero and the villain, and a heroine who refused to die no matter how many times I mentally tried to remove her like some mushroom who offended someone.
The plot was basic. Corruption, power, money, and some vague connections between businesses and government officials. I even changed company names because I ran out of ideas. If anything, it should have been forgettable.
And yet.
Connections?
I tapped the link.
An empty compose screen appeared, dark mode, blank subject, blank body. It looked way too serious for something that came from my nonsense writing.
I typed quickly, introducing my pen name and explaining why I was reaching out.
The reply came faster than I expected. "Good afternoon. This is Detective Morris from the Crime Investigation Unit. We apologize in advance if we attempt to access your location. We simply want to understand how you were able to create such a novel."
I stared at the message. For someone older, someone in his position, he was surprisingly polite.
It made me sigh as I lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what was happening.
I was tired. Sleepy. My body was built in permanent lazy mode, like some kind of defective system that prioritizes naps over responsibilities. I should have been reviewing balance sheets and general ledger entries, but instead, here I was, being contacted by a detective because of a novel I wrote half-asleep and desperate for the five dollars.
Then another message came.
"How did you know that several senators in our legislative branch have connections with multiple foreign businesses operating in the country? We understand you may have tried to disguise the truth through fiction, possibly to protect yourself. Is that correct?"
I sat up.
Hold on.
What kind of second message is that? What is this man talking about? Know? What do you mean know?
The only thing I know is that it's hot outside because the sun is aggressively doing its job. That's the level of thinking I had when I wrote that story.
Connection?
Connection?!
I stared at my phone, my brain trying to catch up with the situation, and failing miserably.
Can someone give me a wall so I can smash my head against it? Because I genuinely have no idea what is happening anymore.
And hiding what?
If I'm hiding anything, it's the fact that I accidentally became a criminal before. Not this. Definitely not this.
Another message appeared.
"We would like to use your novel as a reference point to begin a formal investigation regarding this matter. Rest assured, you will be compensated in exchange for taking down your novel from the platform and keeping your identity confidential."
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then I dropped my phone on my face.
"Of course," I muttered to the ceiling. "Of course this is happening to me. Again."
Out of all the possible outcomes of writing a low-effort, sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled novel, this was not on the list.
Not even close.
I slowly picked up my phone again, staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed me.
I wrote that story to meet a quota.
Three thousand words per chapter. Minimum. Fifteen chapters, one prologue, two extra endings.
Just enough to maybe get five dollars a month.
That was the plan.
Not… whatever this is.
I rubbed my face, dragging my hands down like I could physically wipe away the situation.
"This is fine," I whispered.
It was not fine. Definitely. Obviously.
I looked at the tiramisu still sitting safely beside me. At least something in my life was still within my control.
For now.
[1] https://youtu.be/nIq4z2fnzFU?si=R4fAoxvly2U82U6g