Chapter 1:
Somewhere – 7:51 AM
She woke up with a crick in her neck and someone moaning in her ear.
Unfortunately, the moan was coming from her tablet speaker.
And that someone was a hand-drawn priest being defiled over a cursed altar by a masked executioner with abs like sin and a ceremonial sword that was definitely not regulation length.
"...Oh. That panel turned out kinda hot," Rika Hanabira muttered, voice dry and hoarse from sleeping with her mouth open. "Good job, me."
She was still sprawled sideways on her futon, wearing a t-shirt that read My Omegaverse, My Rules, and one sock. Her stylus was crushed under her thigh. The air was stale and tasted faintly like burnt cup ramen and unholy imagination.
This was her kingdom.
And she was its queen of filth.
---
10:27 AM – Gokujin Publishing (a.k.a. Womb of Creative Death)
"Rika, please redo the cover. The author wants the heroine to look 'more fertile.'"
Rika stared at the monitor. Then at her boss. Then back at the monitor.
"She's already holding a baby and a bowl of soup," she said flatly.
"Give her two babies. One in each arm. And maybe some swelling."
Rika smiled in that empty way people do when they've seen too much.
"Of course. I'll just add a glowy uterus in the background."
---
Lunch Break – 1:03 PM
Alone at her desk with cheap onigiri and an open sketchbook, Rika let her pencil move on instinct.
She wasn't thinking about the deadline. Or the rent. Or the awkward meeting she had later about "brand appropriateness."
She was thinking about the scene.
An elite bodyguard restrained by velvet ropes. A runaway prince with a dagger between his teeth. A chest scar. A shaky confession.
No safe word in sight.
She bit her pen.
> Should he cry a little? Or break the rope with his thighs?
Maybe both...
Her art wasn't strictly A/B/O. She dipped her deranged little fingers into all subgenres:
Gang leader x undercover cop who fell too deep
Knight x cursed weapon in human form
Tentacles, sure, but make it emotional
And yes, sometimes: heat-stricken omegas ruining alphas with one look
Fujoshi art was a war zone.
And she was the medic who made everyone hornier.
14:12 AM – Hell a.k.a. Gokujin Publishing
On paper, she was an editorial assistant at a failing romance novel imprint. In reality, she was a glorified office appliance with a face.
Most of her day was spent listening to passive-aggressive meetings about font sizes and rewriting sex scenes written by 40-year-old men who thought "her petals trembled like dew" was peak eroticism.
She once changed a sentence from
> "He inserted his rod into her tunnel of warmth"
to
"They kissed and it was over."
No one noticed.
---
Cofee Break that ended with microwved noodles – 16:48 PM
Rika sat alone on a bench, eating microwaved noodles and doomscrolling through her fan messages.
> @AlphaPleaseSpitOnMe:
"OMG ur new series!! This heat scene made me bark. I need the dom-omega x bratty-alpha reversal to HAPPEN."
@WolfHeatZone:
"How is ur art so wet?? Like spiritually moist."
@LubeDealer:
"Pls collab with @PheromoneDaddy I BEG."
She typed back with greasy chopstick fingers:
> @BL4geddon:
"It's not about the positions. It's about the emotional damage."
---
Late Night – 2:43 AM
She sat cross-legged in front of her screen, surrounded by energy drink cans and betrayal.
The latest panel was nearly done.
A slow close-up of two hands—one bruised, one gloved—intertwined over a cracked floor tile. The text bubble read:
> "If I survive this, I'm taking you apart, piece by piece."
Rika blinked at the dialogue. She didn't remember writing that.
Her fingers twitched.
A vague pressure spread in her skull, like static through water. Not painful—just wrong. Something was off in her mind. Out of sync.
She touched her forehead.
It felt... crowded.
Maybe she was just tired.
Maybe she was overdue for one (1) normal thought.
She saved the file, shut off her screen, and flopped backwards into the mattress, muttering:
> "I need to get laid or get hit by a truck. Whichever comes first."
---
To Be Continued...