30 PERCENT
Overnight, Aarav's life has altered.
He has a contract for his novel. Profitable. formally acknowledged.
Only a few weeks prior, he was just another anonymous author who put his heart into works that no one seemed to care about. But now—now—he finds it as he browses the "Contracted Novels" section.
His name.
ranked among the best writers.
His pride fills his chest. This is true. This is taking place.
🔔 "Your earnings report is available."
His veins are flooded with excitement. Breathing heavily, he clicks on the notification. He has been waiting for this time.
The screen displays the numbers.
📊 "Your Cut: ₹3,000 (30%)" 📉 "Total Earnings: ₹10,000"
His fingertips go cold.
… What?
The number gives him an unblinking stare in return.
₹3,000.
He gives a blink. The page is refreshed. Perhaps it's a mistake. Perhaps the website has a bug.
However, the figures remain constant.
His stomach churns. His thoughts are racing. There is a problem.
"30 percent? That's just too low. Isn't it?
Looking for an explanation, his eye wanders across the screen. And then—it's there.
The fine print at the bottom of the page is hardly visible.
70% is the platform commission. 30% is the author's share (typical industry rate).
He gets an irritation in his throat.
"Standard rate."
"This is normal."
"This is just how things work."
He feels the words tightening around his chest like chains.
He clenches his fists. Why hadn't he noticed this earlier?
He attempts to talk sense into his head. Money is still money. Something still exists.
He tries to smile as he lets out a shaky breath. "Not a huge deal... I can still earn money.
However, a notion begins to sneak in as the screen's glow flickers across his face.
A murky, unwanted murmur in the recesses of his consciousness.
"You don't own your story."
The platform does. They also stand to gain the most.
His stomach vibrates. He shakes his fingers over the mouse.
Days go by. The feeling of joy fades.
Aarav initially assumed it was simply tiredness. that he required time to get used to it. that this was merely a step in the procedure.
However, what is the reality?
Writing is now a countdown rather than an enjoyable activity.
🔔 "Chapter deadline in 14 hours."
🔔 "Performance dropping: Update frequency required."
No pause occurs. No time to catch your breath. No room for creativity.
An endless treadmill.
The dark bags under his eyes grow as he touches them. The continual typing is hurting his fingertips. His body seems empty, as though he is losing more than he can replace.
"Maybe I just need motivation."
He currently follows a robotic routine:
Get up. Build. Release. Do it again.
Get up. Build. Release. Do it again.
"Maybe I just need motivation."
In search of motivation, he clicks to the comments area.
Rather, he discovers:
"Too slow." 💬
💬 "What's causing the MC's weakness?"
💬 "Bro, go to the action. Nobody is interested in this sentimental nonsense.
He feels pains in his stomach.
Then— 💬 "Bhai, you are a terrible writer with no character development."
Hurry up.
He struggles his breath. He shakes his fingers.
Sharper than a knife, the words blend together.
🔔 "Your earnings report is available."
In his ears, his heartbeat thuds. He makes a click.
📊 "Your Cut: ₹9,000 (30%)" 📉 "Total Earnings: ₹30,000"
His nails fall into the wood as his grip tightens on the desk.
"I wrote every day."
"I barely slept."
"I put everything into this."
21,000 rupees. Lost. Took.
More than twice as much as he was given.
He feels a chill creep up his back.
His surroundings distort. The air gets heavier.
His head turns. He has no weight. Or perhaps he is sinking.
He examines the screen of his laptop.
However, it is no longer a screen.
It's a mirror.
Furthermore, the man who is staring back at him is not him; he is **pale, hollow, exhausted—**.
His mouth moves, but no sound escapes.
"Who are you?"
The mirror beams.
It was not a smile of kindness. Not his grin.
Only a shadow of the person he once was.
Aarav is unable to sleep that night.
His eyes are fixed on the ceiling as he rests in bed. The air in his chamber feels heavy, even though the fan expenses rotates in slow, tired circles. heavy. suffocating.
His physique is worn out. His head? Awakened.
The quiet ought to be soothing.
However, it isn't.
Because he hears it in the silence.
A voice.
A murmur.
"Did you think success was free?"
He gasps. He becomes rigid.
He looked around the dimly lit room. The walls are higher than they used to be. As the shadows grow longer, they approach him like hungry fingers.
There's movement.
Almost. Something flickered in the corner of his eye.
His chest gets squeezed.
He gives a blink. There is nothing there.
His lips release a tremulous sigh. His eyes travel to his desk, where his laptop remains unlocked. A pale, ghostly light is cast by the screen's faint glow.
Then—
🔔 "New Chapter Deadline: 6 Hours Remaining."
His stomach sinks.
In his ears, his pulse thuds. He vibrates his hands. Ready to obey, ready to type—an old habit.
But his thoughts?
His thoughts are yelling.
"I don't want to."
"I can't."
"But if I stop—"
He puts his fingers into the blankets. His breathing becomes hard.
He examines his hands.
dark. cold. They no longer feel like his.
"When did they start feeling so dull?"
Once more, a whisper moves through the shadows, coiled like a snake around his ears.
"You knew the cost."
His throat tightened.
"You signed the deal."
He has a stuttering heartbeat.
Indeed. Yes, he did.
And now?
You can't go back.
🔔 "New Chapter Deadline: 5 Hours Remaining."
The screen of the laptop vibrates.
The reflection on the darkened screen changes for a moment, only a moment.
A form. A face. His, but not.