"Hmmm yeah, fuck you. You can shove my finger wherever you like. Do you seriously think I have time for this crap?"
The man didn’t even hesitate.
Blonde hair a mess, brown eyes sharp with irritation, he stood in the middle of a narrow alley boxed in by overflowing trash cans and flickering yellow light. One hand jammed in his pocket, the other proudly displaying a middle finger to absolutely nothing—
—or at least, nothing most people could see.
In front of him hovered a flat, black panel. No frame. No glow. Just a slice of wrongness hanging in the air like reality had been cut and replaced with a loading screen.
[I have no part where I can show your finger. Also, cursing at me does not change anything.]
The voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t soft either. It just existed. Directly in his head. Calm. Annoyingly calm.
The man squinted at it like he could intimidate software into feeling shame.
"Yeah? Well it does for me," he shot back, rolling his shoulders. "There’s a limit to how much bullshit a human can take, and I’ve blown past it. I’m not even on the scale anymore. I’m in a different graph."
[Your emotional state has been noted. It changes nothing.]
"Oh, good. Fantastic. Love that for me." He clapped slowly, the sound echoing weakly off the alley walls. "Real comforting. Next you gonna tell me to ’restart my feelings’ or something?"
[That is not a valid function.]
"Yeah, no shit."
He stepped closer to the panel, nose almost touching the surface.
"Alright. What are you?" he muttered, lowering his hand but not his attitude. "Glitch? Ghost? Government spyware having an identity crisis?"
[Designation: Interface.]
"Interface," he repeated flatly. "You an interface for what? Because right now, all I’m interfacing with is a headache."
[You have been selected.]
The man blinked once. Then twice.
"Absolutely not."
He knew exactly what kind of crap this was because he’d written two things way too similar to it, and both had gone off the rails in ways he didn’t feel like reliving. His finger came up, pointing at the panel, though the edge in it had dulled.
It wasn’t anger anymore so much as him trying to physically shove the responsibility back where it came from.
"Pick someone else," he said, shaking his head once, like that alone should finalize the decision.
"There’s eight billion people out there. Statistically, at least a few million are better suited for whatever nonsense this is. Go bother one of them. Preferably someone with patience. Or brain damage."
[Selection is not reversible.]
"Everything is reversible. Zippers. Decisions. Bad tattoos."
He pointed at the panel like he could bully logic into cooperating, irritation threading through his voice as it sharpened.
"You’re telling me this is where reality draws the line? You should know better. You’re one of the impossible things, so do the impossible."
The panel didn’t flicker. Didn’t react. Just stayed there, stubborn and perfectly still.
The man exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.
"...You’re serious."
[Yes.]
He stared at it for a long second. Then sighed. Then slowly, deliberately, raised his middle finger again.
"Cool. Then we’re gonna do this my way."
***
Mark dragged a hand through his already messy hair and turned back to the panel like it had personally ruined his week—which, to be fair, it had.
"Explain from the start," he said, jabbing a finger at it. "Why am I here? I was in my room. I was literally writing my new novel. I remember the sentence."
He paused.
"It was a good sentence."
[You have angered an omnipotent being. So you were abducted and transported to this world.]
Mark tilted his head slowly.
"...No, I didn’t."
[You did.]
"No." Firmer now, pointing at his own chest. "I’m very careful about that. I avoid phone calls. I tip drivers. Omnipotent beings are definitely above my pay grade."
He exhaled through his nose, tension sitting under his skin. When was he supposed to deal with any of this? His days were already packed with trying to earn enough to stay afloat, not argue with something that didn’t even bother responding.
"I’ve got bills," he said, flat. "That’s it."
[Your novel angered him.]
Mark froze mid-gesture.
"...My novel."
[Yes.]
"You’re kidding."
[I am incapable of humor.]
"Yeah, I’m starting to get that."
He rubbed his face. "Okay. Fine. My novel pissed off some all-powerful entity. Which one? I’ve written like three and a half."
[He was reading one of your novels. He did not appreciate that you abandoned it midway.]
"...That’s it? That’s the cosmic offense?"
[You left it on a cliffhanger.]
Mark’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"It wasn’t a cliffhanger. It was an open-ended narrative pause."
[It ended mid-sentence.]
"...It was a stylistic choice."
[It ended with: "And then the door slowly—"]
Mark winced. "Alright, yeah. That one’s on me."
He started pacing, agitation bleeding into something halfway between panic and disbelief.
"So an all-powerful being read my unfinished novel, got mad about it, and instead of leaving a bad review—he kidnapped me into another world?"
[Correct.]
"That is insane."
[He takes narrative satisfaction seriously.]
Mark stopped. Turned slowly. Stared at the panel.
"He abducted me... for closure?"
[Yes.]
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Okay. Sure. I respect the commitment."
He looked up at the sliver of sky the alley allowed, then back at the panel. "So I write the ending and he sends me back? That the deal?"
[No.]
"...No?"
[You will live in a new story. Complete it and make it entertaining as its protagonist.]
Mark didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Then—
"...You’re joking."
[I am incapable of humor.]
"Yeah, you said that, and I’m starting to really hate that about you." He pointed at his own chest.
"I’m a taxi driver. Writing is my side hustle. I can barely finish a Chapter without snacks and emotional support. And you’re telling me I have to live one of my stories as the protagonist?"
[Correct.]
"...Which one?"
[The Boys. TV series.]
Mark’s face went blank.
"...Oh no."
His hands dropped to his sides.
"Oh no no no." He looked back at the panel, dead serious. "The show filled with psychopaths."
[Yes.]
"They don’t follow physics."
[Correct.]
"They kill people for no reason."
[Yes.]
Mark stared at it for a long second.
"...I want a lawyer."
*****
A/N: Don’t complain about slow updates. It’s four Chapters a week, fixed. Nothing’s changing.