Merlot had been given an "offer"—a euphemism dressed in legalese. He could surrender all rights to his book in exchange for a shot at a "bigger" audience. Alan insisted he sign, citing some famous author who'd done the same. Apparently, selling your soul was just good marketing now.
But the fine print was a guillotine: Merlot could be replaced by a ghostwriter. A phantom with a pen. So was he still the author of his own story if he wasn't allowed to write it anymore? If the ink came from someone else's vein, did the blood still count?
He remembered how Game of Thrones unravelled when D.B. Weiss took the reins. The show had once been a cathedral of storytelling—until the scaffolding collapsed under rushed scripts and empty spectacle. Disappointing, yes, but it was a warning: when narrative is handed off like a baton in a race to the finish line, the soul gets lost in the sprint.
Merlot stared at the contract glowing on his computer screen, the cursor blinking like a countdown. It was only a matter of time before he'd be replaced. The terms were clear: deliver 1,500 words like clockwork, no sick days, no stumbles. Creativity wasn't a craft—it was a quota.
Sure, he could request time off, but the editor's mercy came with an expiration date. The sick days were rationed like wartime sugar, and he'd already burned through half just trying to breathe between deadlines. The contract didn't care if he was bleeding, grieving, or gasping for air—it only cared if he was typing. He wasn't just signing away his book. He was signing away his right to be human.
Alan called it a good "deal"—a stepping stone to success. But it came with conditions. Merlot would have to sever ties with Microsoft Copilot, because using her meant being lazy. Never mind that his mother was in the hospital, unable to edit his work. She'd fallen down the stairs in her apartment building, groceries scattered, hip shattered. The only editor he had was lying in a sterile room, while the contract demanded perfection—and offered no one in her absence.