"Phew, I think I'll stop here for today."
I take my hands off the keyboard.
After saving what I've written today, I stand up from my seat.
It's been seven years already.
That's how long I've been posting my writing whenever I have free time.
Although the view count is low because I don't follow trends and mainly write depressing and gloomy storylines, I'm content.
I'm satisfied simply because I'm creating the story I want.
Of course, it might just be writing filled with self-satisfaction.
I saw such a comment once.
"If you're going to do this, why not just imagine it yourself and jerk off instead of uploading it?"
Why indeed?
Am I just forcing my world onto readers?
Why can't readers just understand that such writings exist?
If you don't like it, don't read it!
...In the end, I couldn't reply to that comment.
"Let's see what there is to eat..."
It's already 10 PM.
Just the right time to feel peckish.
Health-wise, I should avoid eating at this hour, but it's one of my few remaining pleasures.
I open the door and head to the living room.
There should be some duck meat I bought on my way home yesterday.
Ready-made bar food from the supermarket these days is quite good value for money.
Rustle.
Just then, the sound of turning pages tickles my ear.
Thinking it's been a while since I last held a physical book, I turn my head to see someone on the sofa.
A man.
A man wearing stylish clothes and a hat, sitting upright.
He holds a book in one hand, deeply engrossed in reading.
Judging by the slight tears in his eyes, the content must be sad.
I stare at him blankly.
"Wait a minute."
A man reading a book on the sofa in my apartment where I live alone?
I was about to shout in surprise.
But before I could, the man, having turned the last page of the book, closed it and looked up at me.
"You...!"
"I enjoyed reading it."
I was speechless.
Not because the intruder was so brazen.
But because his face, revealed as our eyes met, was both exotic yet so familiar.
Also, the single tear that flowed from his eye looked so sorrowful that it made my heart ache.
The man stood up from the sofa.
Then he slowly walked toward me, placed his right hand on his chest, and bowed courteously, bending at the waist.
"It's an honor to meet you."
Where have I seen him before?
I know this man.
That intuition rang powerfully in my head.
His black, assertive hair, firmly styled with hair product to reveal his forehead.
The large earring on his left ear, engraved with unidentifiable characters.
His large nose and deep-set eyes, along with stubborn lips that weren't typical of a pure East Asian.
Despite having never left Japan in my life, his appearance was somehow familiar to me.
"Who are you?"
"You don't recognize me? I'm hurt."
The expression he made while saying he was hurt looked so genuinely wounded that I almost apologized without thinking.
But this guy is still an intruder!
I clenched my molars and composed myself.
"I live alone. Don't you know about breaking and entering? I definitely locked the door, so how did you get in?"
"Breaking and entering. Haha, quite an interesting crime."
The man laughed quietly as if amused.
But I couldn't laugh.
Am I perhaps dreaming?
An intense sense of unreality consumed me.
Regardless, the man remained confident.
He turned his head, casually surveying the apartment before handing me the book he was holding.
"What is this...?"
"It's yours."
"This exists as a physical book?"
I was surprised.
The cover bore the title of the story I had been writing all this time.
The contents I hurriedly flipped through were the same as well.
This is definitely my writing.
At one point, I had considered making a few copies for my personal collection since it was my own work, but I never actually did so.
Then, could this guy be...
"Are you a stalker fan?"
"You must be joking. As if such an unpopular story would have fans."
"Well, true, but what kind of lunatic would carefully bind such an unpopular story and seek out its author?"
"Let me be clear—I'm not a reader of your writing."
"But..."
I was about to protest his absurd statement.
But seeing the man's utterly serious face, I found myself at a loss for words.
Sigh, he's a home invader, for crying out loud.
Why am I the one getting tongue-tied?
By the way, wherever it was made, it's really well done.
I wonder if he'd tell me where if I asked.
"It doesn't matter if you don't recognize me. If you had, I might have felt a little—just a little—better."
"Do you have some complaint about the story? Is that why you came?"
"Hmm, something like that."
"You can't just show up unannounced if you're dissatisfied. You could have sent a message to my account instead. Or sent a letter, however you found my address. Or at least rung the doorbell..."
As I spoke, anxiety welled up inside me.
Without realizing it, my voice gradually became smaller and weaker.
The sadness I had first seen on the man's face was reappearing, more intensely.
"I can't dislike your writing. How could I dislike what made me who I am today? However..."
"However?"
"I'm exhausted."
Something densely poignant permeated the man's voice, constricting my chest.
"It's too hard. No matter how much I try and prepare, I can't prevent it. I've risen from despair countless times, but there's no end in sight."
"That's..."
"The danger grows by the minute, and everything I wanted to protect has been trampled. I can no longer find any dreams or hope."
"..."
Geez, does this guy cry this often?
I think I've really gotten myself into trouble.
This might be more than just a simple stalker fan.
Even though I wrote the story in a gloomy way, to think it would lead to this behavior.
Maybe I should have written it less morbidly?
"I've been thinking. And I found a solution."
"O-okay. What is it?"
I just wish he would leave quietly.
I could even apologize if necessary.
But the next words from the man's mouth far exceeded the limits of my imagination.
"Creator. You're the only one."
"What?"
"A story once written is an absolute truth. To change it requires an irregular. And there's only one irregular in the world who can interfere with the story."
"What are you talking about..."
At that moment, a sudden brightness blinded me.
Startled, I squinted and looked down to see light streaming from the book the man had given me.
"Wh-what?!"
"I beg you. No, I implore you."
"Hey, wait...!"
The book opened.
The pages turned at a frightening speed as the light grew more intense.
And I felt an inexplicable pulling force.
I had to struggle to detach the book that was firmly stuck to my hand, preventing me from throwing it away, while also trying to hold back my upper body that was being sucked in.
But that lasted only a moment.
The suction force became too strong for any human to resist.
Starting with my face, I was roughly shoved into the book and felt myself sinking somewhere with a splash.
"Please protect our dreams and hopes."
"You, are you possibly..."
Why did I only realize it now?
Even though I'd described him the most frequently and thoroughly over the past seven years.
Just as I was about to recall his name, my consciousness rapidly faded.
I'm doomed.
Whatever this is, it's seriously wrong.
But in the end, I was swallowed by the book without a chance to defend myself.