DEAL WITH DEVIL
Well done! You can now apply for a contract that is exclusive to you.
As Aarav clicks the notice, his hands shake. The page loads, each second painfully long, his heart pounding in his ears. Then—it's there.
He watches the details come to life.
Earnings are assured. exposure in a priority. an opportunity to pursue writing full-time.
His chest rises and falls with the weight of this moment as he lets out a strong exhale.
"This is it. This is my opportunity.
His fingers clamp down on the desk's edge. This is the culmination of his entire existence. This one choice was the result of many late hours, countless drafts, rejection emails, and self-doubt.
He glances at the terms.
Legal terms for pages and pages. clauses. fine print.
But the words are filtered out of his mind. He only sees the promises.
Wealth, fame, and recognition.
He's already picturing it. His name appears on lists of best-sellers. People all over the world read his stories. No more doubting his value, no more struggling.
He is pointing at the "Sign Contract" button.
In his mind, a tiny voice murmurs, "Maybe read it carefully?"
However, a different voice chuckles, louder, harsher, and more insistent.
"Are you a moron? You have this dream! Simply sign it.
He takes short breaths. His heartbeat quickens.
He clenches his fingers around the mouse.
CLICK.
It flickers on the screen. The page changes. A fresh alert appears.
🔔 "Welcome to our Exclusive Author Program!"
Aarav exhales tremblingly. His vision becomes blurry. Leaning back, he laughs, a mixture of relief, confusion, and pure excitement rising from his chest.
He succeeded.
At last, he did it.
However, something changes once the adrenaline wears off.
His joy is bound like a shadow by a little sliver of nervousness that moves across his gut.
Something doesn't feel right.
However, there is no turning back now.
Aarav wakes up in the morning feeling... strange.
He lies still for a minute, gazing at the ceiling as he allows reality to set in. The contract has been completed. He's a professional now, not just a hobbyist.
He gets a rush from the idea, but there's also something else—something new. A mass.
Rolling over, he reaches for his phone. His email is overflowing.
📩 "Well done on your signing! These are your updated writing instructions.
He opens the email with a tap and reads the contents.
Update every day. There are no exceptions.
Each chapter must have a minimum of 2,000 words.
Reduced visibility results from low engagement.
Contract violations result in penalties.
He feels his stomach tighten.
"Every day, I have to write."
His hands are heavy. Forcing a smile, he massages his temples.
"Not a huge deal. I adore writing.
However, then—
🔔 New alert: "We are now reviewing your novel. Modifications could be proposed.
He gasps. Modifications?
There's another email.
📩 "Dear Author, we recommend making your main character more violent. Dominant characters are preferred by the audience.
Aarav sits up taller and grumbles.
"But that's not how my protagonist is."
📩 "Slow-burn plots also don't work well." In the upcoming chapters, up the action.
His chest gets squeezed. He reads the text again while swiping a hand across his face.
"But that's not my story."
📩 "Modifications will boost reader interest. Your rating could suffer if you don't comply.
The phone feels chilly against his icy fingers.
It gets dark. A storm rages within Aarav's room while the outside world is peaceful.
His comments need to be on the open battlefield that is his laptop screen, which shines in the dark, but they are not coming tonight.
He runs his fingers across the keyboard. His mind is a jumbled mess, but they twitch, eager to produce. The flow of the words is lacking. The happiness is absent.
His chest gets squeezed. He reads his final paragraph again. Something feels off.
This is no longer his narrative. They own it.
He is taunted by the blinking cursor. His stomach turns as soon as he inputs a sentence and sees it on the computer. His voice isn't that. It's mechanical and forced, molded by the expectations of others. Remove.
At the base of his head, an attachment forms. This was the hardest he had ever struggled. He used to find joy, escape, and a sense of aliveness in writing. Right now, it feels like a duty. A job.
A pounding headache intensifies. His vision becomes blurry. His heart beats too quickly and frantically, hammering against his ribs.
Then—action.
His laptop goes into sleep mode and his screen darkens. The brilliance dims for a while, and he sees his own image staring back at him.
He becomes motionless.
He's not the person on the television.
His eyes are hollowed out by dark circles. His skin is excessively thin and dark. His lips are squeezed into a tight, grim line, and his shoulders collapse.
When did he begin to look this way?
He gets an irritation in his throat.
He murmurs, "Why am I hesitating?" "Isn't this what I wanted?"
His own voice sounds strange.
His skin prickles with chilly sweat. His respiration becomes irregular and short. No longer steady or confident, his hands shake over the keys.
Then, like a truck, the understanding hits him.
He is not at peace.
He is imprisoned.
What's the worst?
He used his own hands to autograph the cage.
🔔 "New Chapter Deadline: 23 Hours Remaining."
The notification, harsh and tough, flashes at the top of the screen. Not a request, but a demand.
Aarav takes a deep breath. He is cruelly reminded that he no longer writes because he loves it by the screen that burns into his eyes. Because he must, he writes.
His stomach rumbles. His throat starts to taste nasty.
He is aware of what has to be done. Shut down the laptop. Leave. Take back his story.
He is aware of the truth, though.
There is nothing he can do.
His fingers move painfully and slowly.
He also writes.
Because passion is no longer a factor in writing. The goal is to survive.