"He was just standing there in daze

Looking at the setting sun

His hair was fluttering due to a gust of wind

With the cold wind came the repulsive smell of blood.

He was standing in front of countless piles of corpses.

Finally he sighed and said 

"It's over, peace has finally been achieved."

---

Suddenly, a pen stopped moving.

A man in his mid-twenties leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. He had jet-black hair reaching the base of his neck, long eyelashes, and abyssal eyes that seemed far older than his age. His moustache was full, but his beard was still growing in.

Dressed in a plain white t-shirt and blue shorts, he yawned loudly.

> “Yes… finally. It’s finiiiiiished!”

Outside his room, a teenage girl peeked in and immediately ran to the rest of the house yelling:

> “THE SHUT-IN IS FINALLY AWAKE FROM HIBERNATION!”

The world paused.

His mother, who was washing dishes.

His father, who had just put on his shoes for work.

His grandmother, mid-way through a TV soap.

All froze for a second—

Then rushed toward his room as if some miracle had occurred.

He blinked.

His mother and grandmother had tears in their eyes.

His sister stood there smirking for absolutely no reason.

His father, as stoic as ever, only gave a single nod—but in his eyes, there was unmistakable pride.

They looked at him as if he had won the Nobel Prize. Or perhaps, just finished his plate of food on time.

And in that moment, it hit him—

The novel was over.

A hollow space cracked open inside his chest.

> It’s really done, huh…?

He never considered being a novelist. It was supposed to be just a hobby. Something to kill time. And yet, somehow, it had become something more.

They all stayed and chatted for a while—about food, life, and how he could finally clean his room. One by one, they began to leave. The last to go was his father.

Just before exiting, he turned back and asked,

> “So… what now?”

And left.

The question lingered in the room like smoke.

What now?

He hadn’t thought about it. He hadn’t even told his family about the novel until the money started rolling in. Still, they had supported him—quietly, skeptically, but genuinely.

> Whatever. Let me nap. I’ve earned it.

But just as he lay down, his phone buzzed. A calm, melodic tune played—it was his caller tune. He checked the screen.

Editor.

He answered with a lazy “Hello.”

> “I heard you finished the novel,” the editor said briskly. “I’m on my way to the office. I’ll pick up the manuscript on the way.”

> “Sure,” he replied. How fast does news travel around me…?

---

He passed time playing a few games until the doorbell rang.

He opened the door to find a man standing there—composed and unnervingly sharp.

A crisp blue shirt, grey slacks, and black glasses framed a well-built figure. His jawline looked carved from stone, and his slicked-back hair completed the modelesque aura.

But it was the eyes that stood out.

Cold. Calculated. Quietly piercing.

He always felt a chill when talking to this man—not discomfort, but an eerie sense of being read like a book.

He handed over the manuscript.

> “I’ll get back to you after reading,” the editor said.

He turned to leave—then paused.

> “Well done.”

And walked away.

---

The apartment grew silent again.

> Nap time.

He collapsed onto the bed, eyes already drifting shut.

But something… was off.

---

A sharp stench pierced his nose.

Rot. Blood. Smoke.

He jolted upright.

The scene before him sent his brain into freefall.

Corpses. Everywhere.

Blood soaked into the ground like a cursed ink.

Flies buzzed, vultures feasted, steel clattered in the distance.

His breath caught.

His eyes contracted.

> “T-This is…”