The chapter went live at 2:17 a.m.
I noticed the time because I always do. Late uploads attract a certain kind of reader—the ones who finish what they start. People awake at that hour don't skim. They read quietly, alone, without performing their reactions for anyone else.
I didn't reread the chapter.
There was no point. I had already checked it twice earlier that night. Once for mistakes. Once to remove anything unnecessary. The demon apostles were dead. The world survived. The protagonist did too.
Barely.
What remained of him was alive an empty human shell devoid of any emotions. He could breathe. He could move. But never to smile again
That was enough.
I leaned back in my chair. It creaked, louder than I expected. I told myself I should replace it with a new one later
The room itself was quiet. Clean. Not in a deliberate way—just empty of things I didn't need. Desk. Laptop. Lamp. Shelves with books I hadn't opened in years. No photographs. I'd stopped buying frames once I realized they stayed empty.
I refreshed the page.
Comments were already coming in.
Shock. Anger. Long paragraphs arguing about morality, about whether the suffering had been justified, about characters who no longer existed. Some people wrote as if loss demanded compensation, as if pain needed permission.
I skimmed without slowing.
I wasn't reading the words. I was watching patterns form. Certain phrases always appeared together. Certain complaints always followed certain scenes. Once you noticed it, emotion stopped feeling mysterious.
It behaved like any other system.
I'd learned that early. Earlier than most people seemed to.
My eyes slowed on one comment that didn't fit.
It wasn't hostile. It wasn't impressed. It wasn't confused.
It was just… direct.
Oh. So you can still understand the emotions of the people you created.
Then why not experience them yourself?
I read it again.
Then once more, because the reaction I expected didn't arrive.
A short laugh left my mouth before I decided whether it made sense. It sounded practiced. Like something my body produced when nothing else applied.
"Stupid," I said quietly.
Someone projecting. Someone who thought writing was confession instead of construction. People liked to believe that understanding required participation—that you couldn't describe something unless it had happened to you.
That had never been true.
Surgeons didn't need to bleed. Engineers didn't need to collapse bridges. Observation didn't require immersion.
Emotion was no different.
I typed my reply immediately.
I'm not making them suffer.I'm understanding the emotions they're feeling through my writing.
I paused, fingers hovering over the keys.
The sentence wasn't wrong. It just felt unfinished.
But even after writing it all… I still can't feel it.
I read the reply once after posting.
Accurate.
That mattered more than how it sounded.
The cursor blinked beneath the comment box, waiting. I watched it longer than necessary, aware in a distant way that most people would feel something here—irritation, doubt, the urge to explain themselves better.
Nothing came.
I closed the tab.
The room went back to being just a room.