Present day.
Drip… drip… drip…
Water slipped through the crack in the ceiling in its usual steady rhythm, falling into the plastic bucket on Aiden Jus's floor. The bucket was already nearly full—brownish, rust-stained water sloshing near the brim. It had been there for three weeks straight, faithfully catching the leak the landlord kept swearing he'd "look into." Aiden had stopped bothering to call, the man never answered anyway.
He didn't even look up at the sound anymore. You could get used to anything if it happened long enough. The sour, wet smell clung to the walls. The radiator made the occasional death rattle but still refused to heat the place. The neighbors screamed at each other at ungodly hours. Everything felt damp, cold, and vaguely miserable.
Lately, his life was just a collection of bullet points.
He sat at his desk—a wobbly secondhand IKEA table he'd bought off Facebook Marketplace for twenty quid—surrounded by the fossilized remains of thirteen years of effort. Empty energy drink cans formed a leaning tower beside his laptop. Rejection letters he hadn't bothered to sort spilled out of a torn cardboard box under the desk. And scattered across the floor were unsold paperbacks of his own novels, untouched and gathering dust, their pristine spines silently mocking him.
Nine books.
Nine genres.
Nine spectacular failures.
His laptop screen glowed in the dim afternoon light filtering through the one window in his flat—a window that faced a brick wall like even the outside world couldn't be bothered with him.
Barclays Online Banking
Current Account Balance: £1,350.47
He stared at the number, jaw tight, then clicked open his rent reminder.
RENT DUE: 3 Days
Amount: £1,300.00
His chest tightened. After paying rent, he'd have exactly fifty pounds left.
Fifty quid to stretch across food, internet, electricity—survival.
Some people talked about living paycheck to paycheck. Aiden wasn't even sure he qualified for the paycheck part.
'Twenty-eight years old and I have fifty pounds to my name.'
His phone buzzed on the desk, vibrating just enough to knock one of the empty cans over with a metallic rattle. He picked up the device and squinted at the notification.
New Email: Kindly Publishing Platform
Subject: RE: Manuscript Submission — The Serpent's Crown
Aiden's stomach twisted. He already knew what it was. He'd gotten eight of these same emails before but some stubborn, delusional corner of his skull still hoped maybe—just maybe—this one would be different. Sucking in a deep breath, he moved to click it open.
Dear Author,
Thank you for your submission to Kindly Publishing Platform. Unfortunately, after careful review by our algorithmic assessment system, we must decline to publish The Serpent's Crown.
Feedback Summary:
Market Viability Score: 23/100 (Below threshold) Protagonist Sympathy Index: 31/100 (Below threshold) Reader Retention Prediction: 12% (Below threshold) Commercial Appeal: Not Recommended
We encourage you to continue developing your craft.
Kindly Auto-Response System
Aiden read the email twice. Then a third time, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. A hollow laugh slipped out of him—more crack than humor.
"Algorithmic assessment," he muttered. "Brilliant. A robot rejected me. A computer program that probably can't spell 'nuance' decided my book isn't good enough."
He opened the folder containing his manuscripts. Nine titles stared back at him like tiny tombstones marking years of effort no one wanted.
Kingdoms of Ash — Epic Fantasy — 247,000 words — 3 copies sold.
Neon Phantoms — Cyberpunk Noir — 156,000 words — 7 copies sold.
The Serpent's Crown — High Fantasy — 198,000 words — 0 copies sold.
Yesterday's Echo — Time Travel Thriller — 134,000 words — 5 copies sold.
The list continued in that same humiliating pattern. Different genres, different ideas, same result. Forty-seven total sales in thirteen years. And twenty of those were probably from his mother using fake names.
He moved to open his current project—the one he'd poured two years into.
The Dragon's Throne — 203,479 words.
Aiden's eyes were fixed on the screen. Two years of pre-dawn writing sessions, two years of staying awake too late. Two years of plotting, polishing, and convincing himself he might finally produce something worthwhile.
And no one would ever read it.
His throat tightened as he hovered the cursor over the document.Ctrl+A. And the whole manuscript glowed blue.
'Delete it. Just delete it. What's the point?'
He held his breath as his long slender finger clicked on the delete button…but nothing happened.
Aiden's eyebrows pulled together in a frown and he moved forward to hitting the button again. Harder.
Still nothing.
"What the hell…" He jabbed the key repeatedly.Maybe backspace might work. He went ahead to use the button but got the same result. The text didn't budge. The window wouldn't close. Even the shutdown command refused to respond.
His frustration boiled. He yanked the charger cord out of the wall so hard it scraped across the floor.
But the screen stayed on. Worse—its backlight brightened, glowing almost painfully white.
"No. No, no, no—" Aiden shoved his chair back, heart pounding. His laptop couldn't stay on without power. The battery barely lasted twenty minutes. This wasn't possible.
Then his screen flickered—once, twice—before the manuscript began breaking apart.
Letters dissolved into pixels, swirling like a digital whirlpool.
Aiden froze as those fragments reformed into something entirely new.
A translucent window materialized in the air—floating, green-tinted, unreal.
[SYSTEM DETECTED: HOST IDENTIFIED]
[Name: Aiden Jus]
[Age: 28]
[Occupation: Failed Writer]
[Total Published Works: 9]
[Total Sales Across All Platforms: 47]
[Reader Retention Rate: 0.3%]
[Current Status: CRITICAL UNDERPERFORMANCE]
Aiden's mouth fell open, as he gaped at what was in front of him. His pulse roared in his ears.
This wasn't a glitch. This wasn't a hallucination—unless hallucinations came with system diagnostics now.
He reached out, his fingers passing through the hologram, tingling like static.
"What the fuck…"
Then a voice spoke.
It didn't come from the laptop, or the phone. Or anywhere with a speaker. It came from everywhere at once—inside his skull and in the stale air of the flat.
The voice was male. Deep, ancient and dripping with amused sarcasm.
"Finally. I was wondering when you'd try to delete something."
Aiden jumped so hard his chair tipped over, sending him crashing onto the floor.
"Who—" His voice cracked embarrassingly high. He coughed and tried again. "Who the fuck is there?!"
The voice chuckled, the sound like old parchment crinkling.
"Charming. That's your first sentence to a god? Not 'hello'? Not 'oh mighty divine one'? Straight to profanity?"
Aiden scrambled to his feet, plastering himself against the wall. His eyes darted around the room—even though he already knew he was alone.
The hologram shifted in front of him.
[CONGRATULATIONS!]
[The God of Literacy, Wisdom, and Scribes—NABU—has taken an interest in you]
[Divine Contract Available]
[Accept Y/N]
"Nabu?" Aiden whispered. The name tugged at a memory from some dusty mythology class. "Nabu… as in the actual Mesopotamian god? Babylonian deity of writing?"
"Oh thank fuck," the voice said, relieved. "He has at least two brain cells. Yes, Nabu. The actual god. Not Nabu the plumber or Nabu from the kebab shop. Me."
A beat passed. "Divine patron of scribes. Keeper of wisdom. Inventor of the written word while your ancestors were still arguing about fire."
Aiden slid down the wall until he hit the floor, brain scrambling for logic and failing miserably.
"I'm dreaming," he mumbled. "Or having a stroke. Yeah. A stroke makes sense."
"You're not having a stroke, you dramatic little shit," Nabu replied, sounding highly entertained. "Though honestly, I'm impressed your heart hasn't given out from all the caffeine."
Aiden stared at the blinking [Accept Y/N] prompt.
Contractors existed.
Gods making deals with humans existed.
He'd seen them on the news. Fighting in dungeons. Saving cities.
"But I'm not a hunter," Aiden said hoarsely. "I failed my awakening. I don't have mana. Why would you—"
"Oh, excellent," Nabu purred. "We've reached the intelligent part of the conversation."
Then he paused. Something almost warm beneath the sarcasm.
"I don't want you because of what you are, Aiden Jus," he said. "I want you because of what you create."
Aiden's breath caught. The hologram pulsed faintly again.
Nabu sighed dramatically. "Now. Are you going to sit there having an existential meltdown, or are you finally going to press yes?"