12

There are plenty of moments in life where you'll feel utterly helpless. Whether it's that overwhelming urge to run away or simply just curl up and accept defeat, we've all been there.

For me, that moment came when I posted a wrong answer online. Not just any wrong answer, but a confidently wrong answer. One so bold that the universe itself probably paused just to laugh at me.

The insults came flooding in almost immediately. A digital mob assembled with impressive speed, each member proudly taking turns to roast my apparent lack of intelligence. What made it worse? I forgot to privatize my profile, meaning my age and university details were all there for public viewing.

Beautiful. Now the entire world knew that some supposed college student couldn't even grasp basic facts.

But here's the thing — I did it on purpose.

Ever heard of Cunningham's Law? The best way to get the right answer on the Internet is not to ask a question; it's to post the wrong answer.

Classic bait. Post nonsense and watch the experts crawl out of the woodwork, each eager to flaunt their superior knowledge.

Unfortunately, while the online crowd enthusiastically provided corrections, none of them were actually right. Not one. Just a parade of confident guesses that danced around the truth like contestants in a talent show where nobody really knew what they were doing.

I stared at the screen, unimpressed.

"Great," I muttered to myself. "Now I know how Socrates felt."

With nothing better to do, I sat there squatting in front of my computer like a gremlin, elbows on my knees, chin in my hands. It was my personal thinking pose, one I'd perfected after years of bad decisions.

It was the perfect posture for moments like this. My first official day off in what felt like forever. Not because I'd earned a break, but because my stomach had decided to betray me.

Three full days of abdominal warfare, courtesy of some Indian mango I ate earlier in the week. Who knew fruit could be so vengeful? It felt like I'd swallowed a tiny demon that was now aggressively kickboxing my intestines.

Since I couldn't exactly do much in this condition, I figured I might as well be productive.

"Maybe I should start an online service," I muttered.

I could picture it already. Smug slogans slapped across my imaginary website in bold, obnoxious fonts.

"Need someone to do your essay? Pay me, honey." or "Need someone to finish your half-baked research project? Easy. Pay me."

Eye-catching, right? The kind of annoying ads that somehow still work 98% of the time.

I didn't have a hundred dollars to my name, but I'd still bet imaginary cash that this would make me rich if I could actually be bothered to start it.

On second thought, I could just write a story instead. My writing wasn't anything special, no deep emotions or poetic nonsense, but I had a knack for filling space with words.

And honestly, that's all my professors seemed to care about. My essays? Always packed with enough fluff and overly complex sentences to convince the reader I knew exactly what I was talking about. Scores? Always between 96 and 100.

Not because I was brilliant, but because I'd mastered the art of sounding impressive without actually saying anything.

I once wrote an entire essay about economic trends using the phrase "systematic framework" six times, and I still got a 98.

I was practically a magician.

I tapped my fingers on my desk, debating which path of laziness to pursue. Start a service? Write some forgettable story? Or maybe just return to the comfortable art of doing absolutely nothing?

Yeah, that one sounded good.

But just as I leaned back in my chair, stretching with the smug satisfaction of someone who had chosen laziness as their profession, my stomach twisted violently.

"Oh no..."

My stomach, still furious about the whole mango incident, launched a sudden and aggressive protest. I bolted from my chair and dashed to the bathroom, my legs moving faster than they probably ever had before.

Ten minutes later, I returned to my room feeling like I'd just fought a war. I flopped face-first onto my bed and groaned into my pillow.

"This is it," I muttered. "This is how I die. Mango poisoning."

I lay there for a few minutes, sprawled out like a tragic soap opera victim before an idea suddenly popped into my head.

"Maybe I'll just write an action novel," I mumbled.

I shot upright, grabbed my notebook from my desk, and started scribbling without a second thought. I didn't know where this sudden motivation came from, perhaps the mango-induced pain had unlocked some hidden talent, but I wrote furiously like my life depended on it.

The story started simple enough. A lone vigilante named Kai Veritas, operating in the shadows, determined to expose corruption in his city. I gave him a tragic backstory because every good action hero needs one. Orphaned at a young age, raised by an ex-military grandpa, now living paycheck to paycheck as a low-level security guard.

In my mind, Kai was brooding yet sarcastic. The kind of guy who saves you from thugs, only to scold you afterward for not paying attention to your surroundings.

Then I added a supporting cast.

Mira was a stubborn journalist who never knew when to quit. Her curiosity bordered on reckless, often dragging her into dangerous situations that Kai would reluctantly pull her out of.

Jaxon was the hacker. A self-proclaimed tech genius who still lived in his mom's basement but could break into the Pentagon if he felt like it. He spent half his time complaining about conspiracy theories and the other half proving that some of them were true.

Elliot was the sketchy informant. He sold secrets out of a shady pawn shop, always demanding absurd prices for information. The kind of guy who smiled too wide and knew far too much about everyone's dirty laundry.

It was all fun and dramatic until I started creating the villains. That's when things got... weird.

I didn't intend to make the antagonists feel so real, but as I described their corrupt methods, greedy deals, and public manipulation tactics, something clicked. My mind started pulling bits of real-world information — things I'd read in articles, overheard in news segments, or stumbled across online.

I wasn't just making up some random shadowy organization anymore. I was describing something disturbingly familiar.

A powerful corporation rigging elections. Government officials skimming funds under fake construction projects. Journalists bribed to manipulate public perception.

The details just kept pouring out. I didn't even realize what I was doing until I hit Chapter Five and paused to read it back.

"...wait a second," I muttered.

I stared down at the notebook, horrified.

I wasn't writing fiction. Well, I was, but half of what I'd just written matched things I'd heard about in passing --- rumors I never paid attention to but now seemed oddly detailed in my mind.

"Oh no," I groaned. "This sounds like I'm exposing someone's dirty laundry."

I shoved the notebook away and sank back in my chair. It wasn't like anyone was going to read this anyway. No one cared about my ramblings.

I'd just created some weird coincidence, that's all.

…Right?