In a rundown café that probably failed a health inspection last week but was still open due to divine negligence, a man could be seen sitting alone, furiously stabbing at his phone screen like it owed him money.
His name? Irrelevant. At least, for now.
"What kind of dogsh*t is this?!"
He practically growled at the device, causing the already jumpy barista behind the counter to flinch.
"The author had no nuts. None! Like, why is the protagonist such a monumental p*ssy?!"
Heads turned. A mom with a toddler covered the kid's ears. A hipster at the corner table raised an eyebrow. The café's single, dying plant seemed to wilt more.
The object of his unfiltered rage was a novel he had been doom-scrolling through for the past three hours. Its title: Unbound from Lovebound. The premise had promised him cathartic, bloody revenge.
The execution?
For 100 chapters straight, it was nothing but emotional diarrhea. The protagonist kept quiet of the people who stepped on him like he was a doormat made of tofu.
Almost all Family members abused him, Girlfriend ignored him and wants to pursue another guy. And all of that because 'they misunderstood him'.
Only one person gave a f*ck about him, his birth mother. But even she didn't remain safe from his "Depression virus". She got cheated on, then died in an 'unfortunate accident' eventually.
The Author had
He had reached his limit.
"I quit. But first…"
He muttered, fingers already flying across the screen.
"Let me leave a little steaming turd of justice."
[Rating — ★☆☆☆☆]
[Review: Dear Author, with all due respect—which is none—I would like to sincerely say that you are a b*tchy scared p*ssy. Even if you've got depression heavier than my college debt, don't write this diarrhea and shift it onto us readers. Again, respectfully, GO F*CK YOURSELF.]
He clicked "Post."
"Huh. That helped. Now, for a palate cleanser."
He waved at the waitress who'd been cautiously orbiting his table like he was radioactive.
"Miss, one vanilla espresso shot please."
Her customer-service smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Sure, anything else, sir?"
He gave her the 'I-have-nothing-left-in-life-to-lose' shrug.
"No, that's it."
Five minutes later, a delicate little cup of creamy espresso was placed before him like an offering. He inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering.
"Ah… this smells like redemption."
He took a sip.
It was divine.
He took another.
Bliss.
He took a third.
Then vomited blood across the table.
"G-GAAARGH—!"
The waitress screamed. The manager fainted. One guy in the back asked if this was a prank channel.
It was not.
Within minutes, paramedics burst in like an over-budget action movie. But the man had already lost more blood than an anime protagonist in a nosebleed scene.
...
Somewhere else. Somewhere white.
The man—now definitively, officially, dead—floated in a realm that looked like a blank Word document.
He was naked.
Not just physically, but spiritually. Like every shred of worldly baggage had been tossed out with the garbage. His eyelids fluttered.
His groan was less "Where am I?" and more "God, not again…"
He sat up, blinking. Everything was white. The kind of white that screamed "budget afterlife."
"Okay… either I'm dead, or I've been abducted by minimalist aliens."
"No need to be tense, young one."
A voice, soft as silk and as melodic as a harp played by an angel on sedatives, rang out behind him.
He turned.
And then he froze.
Standing there was a woman so absurdly gorgeous, he was convinced his brain had been replaced with a hentai artist's sketchpad.
Shimmering Golden hair cascaded down her back like a shampoo commercial on steroids. Her amber eyes sparkled with mischief and just a pinch of madness.
Her body—curvy, divine, and annoyingly perfect—was adorned in a white-and-gold outfit that looked ritualistic but was somehow still hot.
Only one thought came to his mind.
'Holy Cow. Did I just die and get sent to a premium gacha pull?'
She chuckled, clearly amused by the intensity of his staring.
"You have questions. I shall answer."
He forced his eyes up to her face.
"Are you a gold-digger?"
There was a pause.
She stared.
He stared.
"...I meant literally," he added, flailing. "Like, born from gold. You look like someone dipped Aphrodite in 24-karat magic and gave her a sparkle filter."
Her expression twitched between amused and mildly offended. Then she coughed, regaining composure.
"Ahem. I am what you mortals call a god. Or, if you insist, a goddess."
He folded his arms.
"Figures. All this white void and you looking like a walking divine cosplay. So? You gonna Isekai me or what?"
She blinked.
"Well… only if you want to—"
"I don't."
Her mouth opened.
"Just let me rest in peace," he added, lying through his teeth.
She smiled, too knowingly.
"I can see through your consciousness, you know."
He winced.
"Was it that obvious?"
"Painfully."
She floated closer.
"Gods like me—some born, some made—exist beyond time. We don't die. We don't age. We get… bored."
"And I'm supposed to be your Netflix subscription?"
"Exactly."
She smiled brightly.
"Think of it this way: I watch, you live. You enjoy, I snack. Win-win."
He sighed, knowing resistance was as pointless as arguing on Twitter.
"Fine. What do I get out of it?"
"Whatever you desire."
She said it casually, like she wasn't offering him the cosmic version of a blank check.
His mind immediately raced with possibilities: power, fame, a harem, unlimited bacon, teleporting socks—everything was on the table.
"Hmmm… alright. I'm in."
He extended a hand.
Before he could say "cool anime pose," he felt his soul start to unravel.
"Wait, aren't you gonna tell me wha—"
Poof.
Gone.
Only the goddess remained, giggling to herself in the blankness.
"I do hope you'll be entertaining enough, sweety."
She licked her lips.
...
Residential building, 2nd floor.
In the bedroom of one of the apartments in the building, rested a peaceful soul.
But the peace was short lived, his eyelids switched as he slowly opened his eyes.
The first thing he noticed was the scent.
It wasn't bleach or lavender-scented afterlife. It was… breakfast? Eggs, rice, and a hint of soy sauce.