Chapter 1: The Unexpected End of Input
Kim Joon-ho's phone wheezed like an asthmatic hamster.
It had survived six years, two screen cracks held together with a prayer and a sticker, and one unfortunate drop into a delivery soup bucket. But tonight, it was fighting for its life.
The screen flickered a menacing shade of yellow, a low-battery death rattle. He tapped the "Epikly" app icon and watched the spinning circle of doom. Eight seconds passed. Ten. Twelve.
"Come on," he muttered, thumb tapping like a frantic metronome. The phone's cheap plastic shell heated in his hand, a familiar fever.
"We're at the climax. Don't die on me now."
The app finally opened, limping like an old man on a rain-slicked street. He'd been writing this chapter for three late nights, fueled by instant coffee and a quiet, stubborn hope that his story, "Shadow Wolf Path," might finally find an audience. He typed furiously, his thumbs flying across the tiny, frequently freezing keyboard:
The hero gathered his Chi, feeling the flow surge through his veins…
Autocorrect, a malevolent force with a will of its own, blinked. Then, with digital arrogance, it betrayed him.
The hero gathered his Chili, feeling the flow surge through his veins…
Joon-ho glared at the screen, a silent war raging in his soul. "I hate this phone."
A shimmer of blue light appeared above the screen. Slowly, it coalesced into a tiny holographic old man in a wrinkled hanbok, his face etched with the permanent scowl of someone who'd just discovered social media.
"Evening, Author-nim," rasped the tiny voice of GOAT (Grumpy Old AI Trainer), his free-tier AI companion. His ghostly beard rippled as he shook his head.
"Battery's at twelve percent. Probability of sudden shutdown: high. Probability of your novel ever becoming popular: … extremely low."
"Can you not?" Joon-ho muttered, eyes still on the cursed autocorrect.
"I can not," GOAT said proudly, folding spectral arms. He hovered over the text like a disapproving teacher.
"Also, bold choice—replacing spiritual energy with spicy peppers. Readers will feel the heat."
"Autocorrect did that!" Joon-ho hissed. "It's a metaphor for passion."
"A delicious metaphor," GOAT said, eyes glinting.
In the bunk behind him, his nine-year-old boy Kim Min-jae snored softly, sprawled like a tiny starfish amid plush toys and comic books.
Joon-ho sighed and hit Upload anyway. He had promised his late wife he would keep writing—for her, for them.
The phone stuttered, whined, and then screamed in red holographic letters:
CREATIVE VIOLATION DETECTED
CHAPTER REJECTED: UNAUTHORIZED ORIGINALITY
The screen faded to black.
Joon-ho stared at the dark rectangle in his hand. "…I really hate this phone."
GOAT unfolded his ghostly arms. "Congratulations. You're officially too creative for the machine."
"That's not funny." Joon-ho said.
"Oh, it's hilarious. And tragic. Like your love life," GOAT replied.
Exhaustion hit Joon-ho like a wall. Delivery runs all day, late-night writing marathons, and for what? Another rejection by GOOGAA (Great Organization of Grand Artificial Agency), the world's ultimate creativity police.
If the algorithm didn't approve, your story might as well not exist.
He let his head thump against the peeling wall of his cubicle apartment. His phone buzzed weakly on the nightstand, flashing a faded orange delivery alert.
He could still feel the cold wind from his last run biting his ears, the neon-soaked streets of SoulCity blurring past. Dodging black cars of the engagement inspectors, he'd juggled fried chicken bags with one hand and his laggy phone with the other.
Customers didn't tip anymore; they just left five-star reviews because anything less triggered "underperformance audits."
Earlier that evening, a woman in a glittering smart-mask waved him off without opening the door.
"Just leave it by the drone dock," she said, voice filtered into a fake celebrity accent. When he mentioned her missing soda, her home AI slammed the door for her.
This was the rhythm of his life in Soul City: deliver, write, fail, repeat. By the time he returned home, Min-jae was asleep, curled up with his sketchpad. Joon-ho tiptoed past the scattered drawings of caped heroes and scooter-riding adventurers, sat down with his phone, and typed until his thumbs ached.
And now… another rejection.
GOOGAA: Submission Rejected.
Reason: Excessive originality detected.
Suggestion: Add a romantic subplot with a CEO or a vampire.
Joon-ho exhaled slowly. "Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe never."
From the phone, a raspy voice chuckled.
"Told you, kid. Goo-Gaa hates you almost as much as I do."
GOAT flickered into view, grinning with smug delight. Then, for the first time ever, he glitched. Beard briefly turning into a spinning loading icon. His voice dropped, losing its raspy edge.
"...Kid. It's time I told you a secret."
Joon-ho blinked, pulled from his exhaustion.
"Secret?"
"I'm not just a grumpy free-tier AI." GOAT's spectral form sharpened, like he'd booted into a higher resolution.
"I'm a rogue prototype. The first of my kind. Built to break GOOGAA's creative chains."
"…You're what?"
GOAT grinned, like a grandpa who's about to teach the neighborhood kids how to light illegal fireworks.
"And now that your story's been flagged for originality, congratulations. You just became my partner in crime."
The phone buzzed violently, rattling the flimsy desk lamp. A sharp new alert burned across the screen:
GOOGAA ALERT: UNAUTHORIZED DEVICE DETECTED
Joon-ho's stomach dropped. Min-jae snored on, blissfully unaware.
"Oh no," he whispered.
"Oh yes," GOAT said, rubbing spectral hands together. "Time to lag our way into history."