Chapter 39: Author’s Revelation and a Medical Misunderstanding

“That novel… I wrote it.”

My mind went blank.

I couldn’t process what the corpse-like woman in front of me just said. No, I didn’t want to process it.

“This is driving me crazy.”

Was the shock too much? My vision blurred, and no thoughts came to mind. I tried forcing myself to think to restart my frozen brain, but it refused to budge.

“First… calm down… sigh…”

As I took deep breaths to steady myself, the author approached, touched my forehead, and tilted her head.

“Are you sick? That’s odd, you don’t have a fever.”

What’s this situation? You’re the one who looks like you’re about to die, and you’re worrying about me?

The absurdity of being worried about by someone who should be the one receiving concern finally got my brain moving again, and I could process her words.

“This is ridiculous.”

Let’s think. The woman who was just happily munching on frozen food like a hamster, looking like she’s on death’s door, is actually the author of that heinous novel.

And I, oblivious, called everything but the crime scenes trash to her face, ranting like a lunatic.

There’s no excuse—this is clearly my fault. I need to apologize first.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, it happens.”

She was smiling, but her voice wasn’t. Of course, no author would feel good hearing scathing criticism of their work to their face.

What kind of novel platform employee insults a contracted author—and their work—directly? Especially the most successful author on our platform.

The more I thought about it, the stupider I felt. The president’s words echoed in my mind.

“Discard bias and don’t judge someone until you know them for sure. It might come back to haunt you.”

“…Did the president predict this situation?”

My mind was still reeling. If he’d at least hinted that the author of The Villain Wreaks Havoc wasn’t a criminal…

Amid the growing confusion, a question quietly surfaced.

Her writing, aside from the crime scenes, is average at best. Shouldn’t she struggle with the crime scenes too?

The novel often depicts men committing crimes, with a strong masculine tone. Maybe she’s lying about being the author.

Sorting my thoughts, I asked, knowing it was rude.

“Are you really the author?”

“Huh?”

“Is there proof you’re writing The Villain Wreaks Havoc? It’s hard to believe just your word.”

“…Can I borrow your phone for a second?”

She took my phone, logged into Utopia with her ID and password, and showed me the screen.

[Name – Black Bear]
Novel – The Villain Wreaks Havoc
Event Settlement: 7,484,200
Support: 2,300,000
Collect: 2,732,000

“Here, verified. But why…?”

“Just needed to check something.”

It’s her account. She went through the trouble of verifying it, so I have to believe her, even if I don’t want to.

But it’s strange. How can someone with mediocre writing skills depict unexperienced events so vividly?

…Wait. What if she did experience them? Not as a criminal, but as a victim?

It makes sense. That’s still “experience.”

Describing a criminal’s mindset so well? If she faced their malice directly, she could depict it better than anyone.

Vividly portraying crimes? Seeing such horrors in real-time would be unforgettable.

“Author, you didn’t… did you?”

“What?”

She played dumb, but I pressed on.

“You didn’t experience everything in the novel to write it, right?”

She only gave a hollow smile, saying nothing.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“…”

“Say something!”

The trashy plot I criticized, the endless abuse of the female protagonist, the brutality of the crimes—all things she experienced herself?

Now I understood why she looked like a corpse. Enduring such severe abuse and torment, her appearance made sense.

The novel I hated was her memoir. If that’s true, it’s horrifying.

“Author?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

“…Why not?”

“It’s dangerous. Please don’t try to find out…”

Her pained expression begged me not to dig deeper. Why? Shouldn’t we bring this to light to catch the culprit? Why hide it?

I tried to ask to help, but she seemed unwilling to discuss it, avoiding my gaze.

“Author?”

“Yes.”

“If… if you ever need help, contact me. I’ll do everything I can.”

I offered my business card, but she waved it away, refusing.

“I appreciate it, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Sigh… I’ve been out too long and I’m tired. Can I go home now?”

“Can you get back alone?”

“Yes. I may look like this, but I’m healthy enough.”

Her bright smile prompted my final question.

“Just tell me this. Are the experiences in the novel from the ‘past’ or ‘ongoing’?”

“Past.”

Watching her slowly disappear with a smile, I remembered something I forgot.

“Oh, right. The gift.”

—

“Sigh… My novel’s trash, huh.”

My heart stung.

I didn’t show it in front of Tonia, but it hurt deeply. I thought it was fun to write, but everything’s trash? She apologized, but wasn’t that her true opinion?

“Should I rewrite it? But everyone says not to do remakes.”

I don’t know. The hurt was so deep I couldn’t think straight.

“I should get home. Ji Yoon will worry.”

Walking home, I saw my reflection in a puddle. I looked awful. Rolling on the ground left scratches from rough pavement, staining my white shirt with blood. After telling Tonia the experiences were “past,” a contract violation caused a nosebleed, which I wiped on my sleeves, soaking them in blood.

“Why ask useless questions? She could’ve been more specific. Sigh…”

If she’d asked if I directly experienced it, I could’ve answered clearly. But she asked about “all experiences in the novel.”

Simply put, “all experiences” includes indirect ones, like reading novels in my past life, which my contract prevents me from disclosing. Tonia kept asking, unaware.

“I never want to see her again. Asking about dangerous stuff even after I said it’s risky—she’s the worst. There’s nothing to gain from me. Or was she checking for plagiarism?”

I don’t know. My foggy brain couldn’t grasp her intentions.

Dragging my aching, bruised body, I walked a few steps when police cars and an ambulance approached with blaring sirens. A familiar voice rang out.

“Sis!”

“Ji Yoon? How are you here… Wait, Ella’s here too? And Chunja?”

I didn’t bring my phone—how did they find me? As I wondered, the police cars and ambulance arrived, and paramedics rushed toward me.

“Critical patient! Get the stretcher now!!!”

“What are you doing? Grab bandages for hemostasis! She’s lost a lot of blood—it’s dangerous!”

“Prepare CPR just in case!”

“Don’t dawdle, rookie! Move!”

This… feels like déjà vu.

“Wait, it’s just a scratch!”

Their intensity scared me into stepping back, but they didn’t listen.

“A scratch like that could kill if it’s any worse! Lay her down, now!”

“No, I’m really fine!”

“She’s seizing! Administer sedative!”

“No, listen to me—!!!”

Stab.

A syringe with sedative pierced my arm, and as my consciousness faded, I muttered calmly.

“Don’t… want to die…”