Leon leaned back against his worn wooden chair, his eyes fixed on the computer screen that cast a pale light across his tired face.
He waited bitterly for the upload bar to finish, as if every passing second was gnawing away at his nerves.
Leon was not just a writer; he embodied the living definition of a penniless author.
The kind of person who had nothing in his pocket but dreams, and in reality, debts that never ended.
In the world of writing, the categories were simple and needed no long explanation: there were those whom the publishers smiled upon, and those whom poverty ground down—and Leon was deep in the second category.
Suddenly, the screen flashed a brief message: [Upload Successful].
Leon tapped the cancel button with his trembling finger to hide the message, then began reviewing the description of his new novel—the novel into which he had poured all that he possessed of darkness.
The title alone sent a shiver down the spine: "The Point Is Not That I'm a Killer… But the People I've Killed."
He read the description as if for the first time:
[What if you discovered that the monster you fear isn't hiding under your bed, but dwelling in your reflection in the mirror? James' story begins like any ordinary young man crushed by the monotony of life, but behind that calm mask lurked a dark soul waiting for the first spark. In a world that recognizes only power, James slips into the abyss of organized crime, where the trade in poisons and drugs becomes more than a way to make money—it becomes a way of life, and where the scent of death becomes more familiar than the smell of bread. But "The Point Is Not That I'm a Killer… But the People I've Killed." Here, crime transcends the streets to knock on the doors of the home. Can you imagine the moment your sister's heart stops because she dared to defy your orders? Or the coldness in your eyes as you end your wife's life because she became a burden to your bloody ambition? Between the merciless hammer of gangs and the anvil of federal forces that pursue him like a shadow, James embarks on a journey of no return. Bloody conflicts, shady deals in closed rooms, and a terrifying psychological transformation turn the ordinary young man into a dark legend in the world of crime. This novel is not just a recounting of events, but a deep dive into the human psyche when it is stripped of its humanity and cruelty becomes its only language. Prepare to enter James' world, but beware… after reading these lines, you may never look at the concept of an ordinary person the same way again.]
Leon rose heavily and headed to the small kitchen. He turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, trying to drive away his worries.
He muttered bitterly to himself: "Can I hold on? The internet will cut off in a week, the debts are choking me… will this darkness really bring me wealth?" He knew he possessed extraordinary genius, but a pen that only knew how to describe knives, blood, the scent of death, and illicit money…
He doubted that readers would accept such unflinching honesty.
But reality had a different surprise in store for him.
Elsewhere, behind another screen, a young man was reading the novel in astonishment.
He whispered to himself, trembling: "All this darkness? These details… this precision in description… no fictional writer could write this. It's like the autobiography of a real criminal!" It was common for some killers to record their crimes behind the mask of novels, and he believed exactly that.
Soon, the comment section exploded.
The young man wrote: "We want more! Ten chapters are not enough, we need to know what happens next!"
Only four hours had passed, and Leon's phone and computer were buzzing with notifications.
Hundreds of comments poured in like a flood:
"Writer, is this your autobiography?"
"I swear this isn't fiction; the bloodiness is so vivid I can smell the blood between the lines!"
"Did James really kill his sister? And what will he do with the federal agents? Writer, these ten chapters could land you in prison!"
"Federal agents? Investigations? Why is everything so precise?"
"Whoever wrote this is not writing from imagination but from memory."
Leon stood stunned in front of his screen. He had not expected such a volcanic reaction.
In just a few hours, views surpassed twenty thousand, and the comments kept multiplying, all revolving around one question: is this a novel or an autobiography?
Despite the strangeness of the responses, a glimmer of hope shone in Leon's eyes.
If the novel exceeded one hundred thousand reads, he would get the coveted contract from the platform and hold in his hands the money that could save him from the edge of the abyss.
The novel he had thought would be his end had become his only ticket to survival, even if everyone assumed he was a criminal disguised as a writer.
Leon whispered to himself, wiping his trembling hands over his face: "I didn't expect all this… ten chapters and it caused all this uproar?"
His heart raced as he imagined the treasure hidden in his private files; he had two hundred and six more chapters fully ready—a complete novel of two hundred and sixteen chapters waiting to see the light.
He imagined the numbers soaring, the millions of views on the horizon, and the monthly income finally setting him on solid ground, far from the specter of hunger and debts.
Without hesitation, and with fingers fueled by the adrenaline of sudden success, Leon began uploading the remaining chapters all at once.
He completely ignored the flood of comments accusing him of crime or questioning his true identity; at that moment, all that mattered was completing the picture he had drawn with the blood of his nerves.
He reveled in his imagination, which had begun to invade thousands of screens, leaving reality behind.
The usual message appeared on the screen one last time: [Upload Successful].
Leon's smile widened as he watched the reading counter accelerate wildly before his eyes. In that moment, the traditional gap between the penniless writer and the successful one vanished.
Both shared that unique thrill that follows seeing one's work bear fruit. He felt something strange surge through him, a sense of fulfillment because he had shaped something different from the darkness of his thoughts and beliefs, something that was an intrinsic part of his soul and that he had finally succeeded in delivering.
It was that feeling only a writer knows, when a piece of his heart becomes public property, astonishing the world.
After confirming that every chapter was uploaded, Leon collapsed, exhausted, onto his modest bed. The clock had passed three in the morning, and his body demanded a truce.
He closed his eyes, listening to the silence of his room, yet his mind still buzzed with James' words and the sounds of gunfire he had meticulously described in his novel.
Finally, he surrendered to sleep, knowing that when the sun rose, he would no longer find himself the forgotten writer he had been yesterday.