DRRRRRRRRRRRR.
The rhythmic vibration of his phone dragged Mark out of a rare, peaceful dream. He groaned, stretching his arm toward the small cabinet.
His hand brushed against the cold, dusty floor before finally grasping the battered smartphone with a cracked screen.
4:00 AM.
"God... just give me five more minutes," he croaked. His voice sounded like he'd been swallowing sandpaper.
Mark sighed, his blue eyes stinging from a lack of sleep that felt like it had lasted for decades. He stood up from the thin, lumpy mattress that smelled faintly of old cotton. Standing at 6'2", his head nearly brushed the stained ceiling of his cramped, shoebox apartment.
In the bathroom, it was even worse; he had to duck just to pass through the doorframe. The place was built for dwarves, not a guy with a model's build and no money to his name.
SPLAT
The cold water hit his face like a physical slap. He cursed under his breath, "F—king hell, that's cold!" He quickly adjusted the rusty tap.
As he lathered himself with a sliver of citrus-scented soap that was so small it kept slipping from his hands, he looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror.
He was tall—too tall for this life. His body was lean, bordering on malnourished from skipped meals, but his muscles were hard and defined from years of manual labor. He looked like he belonged on a billboard in Milan, but his bank account said he belonged in a soup kitchen.
He had to hurry. His schedule was a nightmare: coffee runner in the morning for arrogant corporate pricks, handyman at a dusty electronics store at noon, and then the night shift as a waiter at an elite bar inside an expensive hotel.
Just as he was chewing on a piece of dry, leftover bread that was suspiciously hard, his phone buzzed. A notification flashed.
[CONGRATULATIONS! You are the winner of the "María" Special Edition Raffle!]
Mark froze. A crumb of bread fell from his mouth.
"No way..."
A private meeting with the author? An autographed printed copy? A handshake? At a luxury hotel? For the first time in years, Mark Wilson felt like the world didn't actually hate his guts. He checked the screen again, blinking hard until his eyes watered. It wasn't a scam. It was the official app of the novel he'd been obsessed with for three years.
He, Mark Wilson—a man whose biggest win in life was finding a discarded five-dollar bill in a gutter—had won the grand prize for María.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn't just love the book; he was pathetic enough to be in love with the lead character, María. To meet the author, to hold a physical copy... it felt like a sign.
"Finally," he whispered, a manic, slightly crazy grin spreading across his tired face. "Something actually goes right."
⚀ ⚁ ⚂
The morning was a blur of caffeine and aching legs. By 2:00 PM, Mark was standing in the lobby of the Grand Something Hotel, feeling like a cockroach in a palace.
He was wearing his "best" shirt—which was just his least-faded one—and trying not to look like he was about to faint from excitement.
In a private suite, he met the man. The Author.
The Author looked... mysteriously strange. He had a smile that was a bit too perfect, eyes that seemed to see right through Mark's empty pockets.
He handed over a heavy, leather-bound book. The gold lettering on the cover screamed it was different versions of the ordinary copies: MARÍA.
"You've read my work often, haven't you, Mark?" the Author asked. His voice was smooth, like expensive silk.
"Every single chapter, sir," Mark replied, his voice shaking half excitement. "I... I think I know María better than I know myself."
The Author's smile widened. It was almost predatory. "Good. Then you understand her tragedy. Take the book. It has a special bonus chapter just for you."
As they shook hands, Mark felt a weird jolt—like a static shock, but deeper. It made his teeth ache. He didn't think much of it, too busy clutching the book to his chest like it was a holy relic.
He felt incredibly lucky. Armed with his prize, he headed down to start his shift at the hotel's elite bar.
⚀ ⚁ ⚂
Mark arrived at the bar forty minutes early. He sat in the employee breakroom, ignoring the weird looks from the other staff. He didn't recognize any of them—must be new hires—but he didn't care.
He opened the book.
The smell of fresh ink and expensive paper filled his lungs. He began to read. The bonus chapter described a scene in a bar. It was so vivid he could almost smell the bourbon.
"Wilson! Get your ass out there! We're slammed!" his manager hissed.
Mark snapped the book shut, tucked it into his locker, and smoothed out his waistcoat. He stepped out into the lounge. The place was different. The gold-leafed pillars seemed brighter, the marble floors more polished. The customers smelled like old money and expensive cigars.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The sound of high heels echoed through the room, cutting through the low hum of jazz.
Mark turned. His breath hitched.
A woman walked in. She was a goddamn goddess in a vision of bronze skin and honeyed waves of hair that fell over her shoulders like silk. Her features were sharp, possessing that fierce, sun-kissed beauty of the Latin highlands. She wore a red dress that was short enough to be dangerous and tight enough to be a crime. She had a pair of dark, modish sunglasses covering her eyes.
"Who is that?" Mark whispered to himself. He thought she might be a celebrity. The way she walked—with such commanding elegance—made every man in the room stop breathing for a second.
She took a seat at a booth in the center of the bar. Even when she's sitting down, she held herself with a commanding elegance—her dress hugging her curves in a way that screamed power rather than just beauty.
Mark's manager shoved a tray into his hands. "Go. There. Don't mess it up, or the loan sharks won't be the only ones coming for your skin."
Mark nodded, his throat dry. He approached the table, his heart doing a drum solo. As he got closer, the woman reached up and slowly removed her sunglasses.
Mark's brain short-circuited.
Amber eyes. Fierce, sharp, and cold as ice.
"María?" he breathed. The name slipped out with a Spanish roll he didn't even know he had.
The woman snapped her head toward him. Her hand disappeared under the table instantly.
"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was like cracking ice, sharp and dangerous. "¿Quién te envió? (Who sent you?)"
"I... I'm your waiter," Mark stammered.
His heart was screaming, jumping like madman. This isn't real? This is the book. She's the book!
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany doors of the lounge were kicked open with a thunderous BANG!
Men in long coats, their faces obscured by shadows, stormed in. One of them pointed a suppressed pistol toward the booth.
"There she is! Finish the job!"
Everything happened in a heartbeat. María didn't scream. She didn't flinch. She pulled a small silver handgun from a thigh holster hidden under that red dress.
Mark, caught in the middle of it all, felt his legs turn to jelly. He didn't try to be a hero. He just... tripped. His legs gave out from pure, unadulterated terror, and he fell forward right as the first shot was fired.
POF.
A dull thud.
Mark felt a sudden, searing heat in his chest. It didn't hurt at first. It just felt... heavy. Like someone had pushed a hot iron into his ribs.
He looked down. A crimson flower was blooming rapidly across his cheap, yellowed shirt.
"Oh... crap," he whispered.
He looked at María. She wasn't looking at him with love or gratitude. She was looking at him with pure suspicion, her gun aimed at his head as she used his falling body as a shield to retreat.
"Wait..." Mark tried to say. "I… won… the raffle… damn it…"
But his mouth filled with the metallic taste of copper.
Blood.
The world tilted. The gold pillars faded to grey. His knees hit the marble floor with a sickening crack. As his vision darkened into a hazy red, the last thing he saw was the clock on the wall.
11:59 PM.
Then, darkness. Cold, absolute darkness.
DRRRRRRRRRRRR.
Mark bolted upright with a choked scream. His hand flew to his chest, clawing at his shirt, searching for the hole, the blood, the heat.
Nothing. Just the familiar, itchy wool of his old sweater.
He was panting, sweat dripping down his neck, his heart still racing at a hundred miles per hour.
"A dream?" he gasped, his voice hoarse and trembling. "It... it was just a f—king dream." He sighed.
He reached for his phone to stop the annoying vibration. His thumb hit the screen, and his tired blue eyes squinted at the time.
4:00 AM.
A notification popped up on the screen.
[CONGRATULATIONS! You are the winner of the "María" Special Edition Raffle!]
Mark stopped breathing. The dry bread on his bedside table was exactly where it had been. The citrus scent of his soap lingered from the cracks in the bathroom door.
The exact same notification. The exact same time.
"No," Mark whispered, his hands shaking so hard the phone nearly fell. "Not again. Please, not again."
Suddenly, a semi-transparent screen flickered in his vision.
[KRRRRTTTKKKK.]
[WAITING...]
[HELLO HOST]
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED: THE AUTHOR'S COMPENSATION.]
[STATUS: YOU DIED LIKE A LOSER.]
[COMPENSATION FOR 'DEATH BY TERROR': $1,000,000 HAS BEEN ADDED TO YOUR VAULT.]
❖━━━━━━[ROLLING...]━━━━━━❖
[RESULT DAILY ROLL: ➊ [1] - CALAMITY]
❖━━━━━━━[ROLLED]━━━━━━━❖
[FAVOR POINTS : 0]
Mark stared at the screen. Then he looked at the floor. Then back at the screen. Then at notifications of he got a transfer of that amount into his bank account from some kind of legit company.
"Huh? I... I'm rich?" he whispered.
⚃ ⚄ ⚅
...