《My Author System》


 Zero-Day

    Note: By the end of chapter 3, you''ll be hooked. But also confused (normal until the reveal).


    Note 2: There may be inconsistencies in plot or characters, ignore them, don''t ask.


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    A young man with skin as pale as snow leaned against the wooden counter, his arms crossed and back slightly hunched.


    His black, medium-length hair, falling over his eyes in textured strands, obscured his vision, but he seemed somehow indifferent to it.


    Casually surveying his surroundings through the hazy blur of hay-vision.


    He took a deep breath, such that filled both his lungs and stomach, holding it in for ten seconds, before exhaling slowly, releasing the fatigue and stress of the day.


    It wasn''t a sigh, just a breath that carried the drain of every hour spent working.


    Like any tired, overworked person, he likely longed for rest, but that was not the role he had chosen to play here.


    His eyelids finally opened, revealing piercing light blue eyes that radiated warmth¡ªthough there was that dead-tired feel accompanied by dark rings. Quite similar to how an old man, clearly past his days, would look whilst laying bedridden on an hospital bed.


    "Poor guy," a woman''s voice broke through the quiet hum of the caf¨¦.


    She was speaking softly, her words directed at the tired worker behind the counter. "I can''t even begin to imagine what his life''s like."


    Clink, clank, clunk. The sharp sound of a metal spoon striking a ceramic coffee cup echoed as her companion stirred her drink.


    "Yeah," the friend replied, almost instinctively, "but don''t bring it up. He¡­ gets emotional."


    "Really? Well, he''s cute¡­" the first woman murmured, her voice light, flirtatious.


    The other woman burst into laughter not bothered by the new set of eyes that followed, her tone mocking, hands fluttering as she laughed. "Hah! But do you know how old he is?"


    "At least 22," the first woman answered, eyes scanning Victor with interest.


    The second woman laughed again clearly amused, though there was an edge of surprise to it. "No, Cayla. He''s 17. Underage. Illegal. Jail"


    Cayla paused, struck by the revelation. Nevertheless, it made sense why she initially perceived him as a 22 year old, in a way, given the weariness that seemed to consume him.


    The exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, a life uncomfortably lived, perhaps even unhealthy.


    He looked older than he was, certainly, but what struck her most was actually his demeanor. Uncharacteristic for most 17 year old green apples.


    Having thought of him just now, her eyes drifted towards him, as they often did whenever she visited the coffee shop these past few days with her new friend from college¡ªwho was currently blabbing about something Cayla wasn''t paying attention to.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Instead, she was battling another fight, one that was happening in her thoughts, evidently spilling to betray her face in a mode of two different micro expressions at that.


    ''Seventeen¡­''


    For a passing moment, their gazes met across the room.


    ''Ahh don''t look at me..'' was her thought.


    But she quickly shifted her head to face her friend, though her eyes still flickered toward Victor, the source of her distraction.


    "Hello? Earth is calling Home. Or are you lost somewhere in another world?" her friend waved her hand in front of her face, catching her attention.


    "¡­Uh, yes, sorry. What were you talking about?" Cayla mindlessly said as she tried to regain her focus.


    "Really Cay¡­ You weren''t listening at all, were you? I''ve been talking for minutes about something serious that happened like RIGHT NOW" her friend remarked with a sigh.


    "I was texting with someone about tomorrow''s lecture and they said What lecture? So I asked others and then asked some more, they don''t remember Professor Liam. Like, at all¡­"


    "You know him, rightt? He always shows up exactly 14 minutes late to his lectures, all groggy, like his wife woke him up instead of his alarm,"


    "and and, he brews that god awful Turkish coffee while lecturing,"


    "I also texted you yesterday that we wouldn''t be going because of Professor Liam and that strong smell of coffee that made me gag and cancel our own coffee plans."


    What followed was silence.


    And then¡­


    "But when I check it now, there''s no message at all, like I never sent it."


    Cayla frowned. Then, with utmost certainty replied, "No¡­ I don''t think I remember him."


    Her friend blinked, shocked. "How could you not? We were literally there yesterday! You really don''t remember?"


    At this, they both thought the same thing¡ªsomething was off.


    The friend had been talking about their professor, and yet Cayla had no recollection of the encounter. It was as though a piece of their shared reality had slipped away unnoticed.


    Moreover, both of them believed the other was bat-shit crazy.


    "Don''t look at me like I''m crazy. I know for fact that-" her friend stopped mid-sentence and her mouth dropped open.


    "¡­"


    "What were we talking about anyway? " she finally asked.


    Cayla took a sip of coffee, the edge of the cup smearing in a light pink hue.


    "I don''t know. I guess about Victor." At the end she raised her voice slightly, as to emphasize the last word.


    As if summoned, Victor appeared near their table, looking down.


    In response to that, Cayla, in particular, had a reaction that anyone could deduce had happened within seconds.


    She blushed and quickly shook her head down as it was more comfortable having a contest stare with the counter than with him.


    He wore a simple black t-shirt and black pants, the faded leather belt worn from use.


    It was the kind of uniform that blended seamlessly into the dim, warm light of the caf¨¦ with curtains down.


    His arm raised, reaching for the pocket of his black apron, which, in the low lighting, seemed almost invisible against his dark attire.


    "Hi, uh, what did you need? The receipt?" Victor asked in his usual semi-professional manner, his voice betraying the weariness he tried to hide.


    After handing over the receipt and taking over the payment, Victor asked if they were staying or about to leave.


    Having received an answer, the former, he nodded and with a slight press of his foot, performed a 180 turn slowly walking away.


    Until¡­


    He remembered why he had approached them in the first place.


    Bits and pieces of information had traveled to his ears:


    about someone named Jackson¡ªor so he heard,


    a college friend of theirs ¡ªby his assumption,


    going missing¡ªbingo, at least he was right about one.


    Normally he wasn''t the prying type, nor the kind of person who liked to stir up drama and rumors.


    Not that he was uninterested, but because, frankly, he had enough of his own drama, talk and hardships to fill a bucket with enough to serve every customer in the caf¨¦.


    But now, he did care.


    ''It''s an interesting topic.'' He thought as he turned back to face the two women, capturing their puzzled attention.


    "Atlanta, and, uhm, her friend¡­ sorry, I still don''t know your name since you only started coming to this caf¨¦¡­"


    Victor paused, recollecting, "¡­ three days ago, and two days ago, skipping yesterday, right?"


    With that final word he smiled.


    She flushed, cheeks red, even her ears¡ªdespite being hidden partially by her orange bob¡ªflushed.


    That small detail was what made her like him even more than mere moments ago.


    After all, one of the basic human needs/wants, is to be seen.


    What followed was an awkward pause, broken only by the ambient sounds of chatter, soft music, and the hot steam from the coffee machine.


    Before long, all four eyes were on Cayla.


    "Sorry, sorry. Yes, you''re right. I skipped yesterday."


    "I, uh, get a little lost sometimes. Distracted even. That''s why I wasn''t answering for so long."


    She extended her petite hand, unbelievably making the first move to offer a handshake, "Cayla Rise. Nice to meet you, officially."


    A soft chuckle escaped from Victor, the earlier tiredness seemingly vanishing into thin air.


    Maybe we have a second secret admirer?


    "Victor. Just Victor."


    It was odd.


    He didn''t offer using his surname or explaining why so.


    Cayla, however, didn''t notice the omission. Her mind was preoccupied with thoughts whether or not her hands were sweaty.


    During this exchange, Cayla''s friend, Atlanta had been silent.


    "Atlanta, I came here to ask¡­ well, nothing. Forget about it. I already spent too much time here." Victor said with a shrug.


    "My ___" his voice trailed off as he looked to the side, just behind the counter, his very own nightmare.


    "Will kill me."

 BREAKING NEWS

    "My ___ will kill me."


    Though Victor had left the sentence hanging, the two women pieced it together almost instantly.


    Atlanta figured it out because she knew Igor, the caf¨¦''s boss. She frequented the place almost every other day since it was near her college.


    Igor was a man in his late forties with a shiny, bald head and it always amused her how all the hair seemingly abandoned his scalp for other territories.


    Cayla, though unfamiliar with Igor, quickly put two and two together:


    A barista chatting with customers for ten minutes? That could only lead to trouble, unless Victor came up with a good excuse¡ªor a convincing lie.


    "Sorry for keeping you so long," Atlanta said, instinctively blaming herself for the situation. If Victor were to lose his job over this, she knew she''d carry the guilt.


    But Victor didn''t look concerned about getting fired.


    Instead, he stood there awkwardly, like a coat waiting to be hung.


    The women, unsure why he lingered, exchanged a brief glance.


    "Victor. Go," Atlanta said, her tone firm but sympathetic. "Get back to work, and don''t mind us, okay?"


    Victor snapped out of his trance. "Ah, sorry, sorry. Enjoy the rest of your stay, ladies." He turned to Cayla and added with a slight bow, "Cayla."


    And with that, he returned to the counter, his hands busying themselves with dishes and other menial tasks.


    ---


    "Victor. Victor, Victor!"


    The voice cut through the ambient guitar music like a gravelly storm.


    It was Igor. He had been waiting for Victor to return so he could chew him out away from the ears of customers. The caf¨¦''s well-placed speakers ensured discretion for such moments.


    Victor turned to face his boss, his face paling as though he''d just encountered a ghost¡ªor become one.


    Igor, standing there, looked every bit like a gorilla. His build was brawny, arms as thick as Victor''s thighs and his stomach, his stomach protruded revealing a jungle of interlocked hair.


    If evolution ever had a spokesperson, Igor could single-handedly prove its truth.


    "Sorry, boss. The ladies needed help with something," Victor mumbled, scratching the back of his head.


    Igor, busy preparing a coffee, held a steam wand in his hand. The hiss of hot steam punctuated the air.


    "What''d you say, boy?" Igor asked, raising an eyebrow.


    Victor began to explain again, but with each word he spoke, Igor pulled the handle, releasing a burst of steam.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "So¡ª"


    Sssshhhhh.


    "Sorry¡ª"


    Sssshhhhh.


    After a few more attempts, Victor gave up. It wasn''t worth trying to reason with someone who clearly wasn''t listening. Besides, Victor knew he was in the wrong, and arguing wouldn''t help his case.


    Igor finally spoke, his tone a mix of irritation and condescension. "Kido, listen carefully. I''m only saying this once. I hired you despite having far better candidates¡ªones with actual experience, unlike you."


    Victor nodded attentively, eager to show he was willing to learn and improve.


    "You had a rough start, but I taught you everything you know now. And look at you¡ªmaking coffee, serving customers, doing dishes, cleaning. You''re like a cheetah, boy."


    Victor almost smiled at the odd compliment, but Igor wasn''t done.


    "I raised you like you were my son," Igor continued, his voice taking on a self-righteous edge. "And I expect respect. Respect for me, respect for this job. Not wasting time flirting with girls, hoping to dip it in."


    Victor''s expression remained neutral, though internally, he flinched. Igor had completely misinterpreted the situation, but Victor didn''t dare correct him, presumably.


    "And another thing," Igor added, pointing a thick finger at him. "You''re slow. Dumb. It took you an entire day to wash dishes, like you''ve got brain damage or something. Hell, my 98 year old Babushka is smarter and more functional."


    Victor stayed silent, careful not to provoke him further.


    What Igor failed to acknowledge¡ªor perhaps purposefully ignored¡ªwas his own penchant for micromanaging. Whenever Victor completed a task efficiently, Igor would insist it wasn''t good enough and make him redo it. There were nights Victor had to mop the floor five times before closing, all the while Igor stayed in the caf¨¦s basement with his "friends."


    "Why are you standing there? Get back to work," Igor finally snapped, waving him off.


    Victor nodded and returned to his tasks, his energy drained. It was no mystery why he was perpetually exhausted. Overworked and unofficially employed, he lacked any safety net¡ªno insurance, no proper paycheck, and no way out.


    But for now, all Victor could do was endure. Three more hours. Then he could go home and finally get some sleep.


    ...


    Two hours passed. The TV in the corner of the establishment buzzed quietly, tuned to the news channel by default.


    Igor sat alone at the table, an ashtray in front of him, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the air as his attention remained fixed on the screen.


    The boy, as usual, mopped the floor, his gaze occasionally drifting to the wall clock and then back to his boss.


    He had found Igor''s behavior to be unusual today, a mix of nervous energy¡ªno, fear.


    It was unlike him to show such vulnerability. Perhaps that''s why his mood swung unpredictably, one moment cordial, the next cold, before returning to a false politeness.


    Only the faint glow of Victor''s flashlight illuminated the boy''s movements as he mopped, while the TV light spilled across Igor''s bald head and glistened on his sweaty forehead.


    "Breaking News: People across the country are reporting sightings of what they''re calling ''The Devil''s Gates,'' strange phenomena appearing in random locations. The phenomenon has sparked a nationwide panic, with experts calling it mass hysteria - possibly orchestrated by religious fanatics."


    The anchor''s voice faltered slightly, as if unsure how seriously to take the reports.


    "Authorities are working to contain the situation, offering fund incentives for mental health care facilities and such. But many citizens are convinced something otherworldly is happening. Of course, this has only fueled speculation."


    A shift in tone followed as the scene cut to a group of anime fans gathered, arguing passionately with people, but more so with themselves.


    Weeb 1 (cosplays green military-like clothes): "IT''S called a Gate, a portal to a new world. Oh I can''t wait to be isekaid, I could find a Rory an elf..."


    Random 1: "A gate? And what''s a loly? Every day I realise we stray further from God..."


    Weeb 2: "Na na it''s something like Re:0 or mushoku¡ªlike uhm not gates but summons from different dimensions or parallel worlds. And I think it''s the second. There''s even theories about it made by-"


    The camera panned back to the news anchor, now visibly uncomfortable, trying to regain control of the situation.


    What type of answers did the news agencies expect, asking all these questions just a mile away from the nearest convention?


    Meanwhile, the previously scared Igor had started laughing, even signaling for Victor to come and see. And Victor did.


    But when he arrived, he didn''t find it funny at all. Instead, he found it...

 BROKEN NEWS

    "What," Victor muttered under his breath, the sound so faint it could have been mistaken for a sigh by Igor.


    "Can you raise it?" he asked.


    Igor hesitated for a moment but complied to ease his mind for tonight''s event.


    The faint static cleared, replaced by the crisp  voices of a news anchor and the hum of activity in the background.


    As the sound filled the room, Victor caught snippets of reports¡ªa dozen updates pouring in rapid succession. He leaned forward, his brows knitted together.


    You see, Victor hadn''t checked his phone today. Not that it was unusual; he never really could. Pulling out his phone during work was like inviting disaster¡ªanother scolding, another step closer to losing his job. And for Victor, that little paycheck, as meager as it was, kept him alive.


    On the screen, at the very bottom he read:


    BREAKING NEWS: Reports of alienation feelings flooded through and through.


    They encouraged viewers to call in if they had any firsthand information, though the calls were often riddled with pranks and misinformation. Teams of analysts sifted through the data, compiling a statistical narrative from the fragments.


    Victor listened to the reporter talk about the feeling of alien people experienced in their own homes¡ªstrangers to their families.


    And how some husbands looked at their wives, children looked at their parents, and they felt... nothing.


    A sense of disconnection, like impostors had replaced their loved ones.


    Or the imposters had been they themselves.


    He glanced at Igor, who was lighting another cigarette, seemingly indifferent to the image on the screen in front of him.


    A while later, the reporter wrapped up that segment, adding a careful disclaimer: the information couldn''t be verified with absolute certainty. It might all be a psychological phenomenon, she explained.


    "Maybe stress," she suggested.


    "Perhaps couples who''ve lost their spark are finding it easier to blame anyone but themselves."


    And as for children? That explanation had come almost dismissively:


    "Kids have a vast imagination, after all."


    ...


    Half an hour later:


    The newsroom was as chaotic as Wall Street in its early days.


    Producers ran around like headless chickens, phones, tablets, papers, or graphs practically glued to their eyes. In stark contrast, the tech team sank deeper into their chairs, typing furiously to resolve issues with the live feed and prepare for the next segment.


    After all, they were all witnessing a record-breaking number of viewers.


    A producer talked directly into the reporter''s earpiece. "We''ve got a doctor on the line. Says it''s critical. Wants to go live. Name: John, Surname: Twin."This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    She nodded briskly, signaling the crew to verify the source. The technical team worked quickly, pulling up background checks, enabling safeguards to cut the feed if deemed necessary.


    "Reporting live," she announced. "We have a call from Dr. John Twin, a professional psychiatrist."


    "Dr. Twin, the world is yours, and its waiting."


    The feed switched to the shaky, low-quality video of an old man holding a phone in selfie mode. His face, deeply lined and dotted with age spots, filled the frame. And a huge birthmark was on his face.


    "Dr. Twin,"


    "What pressing matter brought you to request a live broadcast?"


    The video shook violently as if he were running. His mouth moved, but the words were drowned out by the wind and his heavy breathing. Behind him, the light-gray sky stretched wide, indicating he was outside.


    "It seems Dr. Twin is experiencing some technical difficulties¡ª"


    She grit her teeth, thinking, Why the hell did I approve this? Another lunatic wasting my time, certifications or not.


    Suddenly, the frame stuttered, the video moving at no more and no less than three frames per second. The shaking stopped briefly, and something as tall, perhaps taller, than a human, appeared in the background.


    Victor leaned forward even more, rising onto the tips of his toes to get a better view, as the TV was positioned in the top corner.


    At first, he saw a blurry, shape of mass against the bleak gray sky.


    Then it was clear the white mass floated, its edges shimmering as though glitching in and out of reality.


    Gasps echoed through the newsroom as the crew stared at their monitors. Even through the grainy quality, the shape was undeniably unnatural. The broadcast team hesitated, unsure whether to cut the feed or let it run.


    "Doctor, what is that? Doctor? Doctor." the reporter managed to make herself ask.


    The feed stuttered again, the mass flickering violently, growing and shrinking at the same time.


    Then, the video froze, before turning black.


    The whole newsroom fell silent, save for the hum of equipment. Then, all at once, the phones lit up with calls so they cut to commercial.


    "Pfht. What a scam. At least they made their money back with the new record they set," Igor muttered.


    Victor was even more confused than before.


    His puzzled expression surprisingly pleased the old man, making him eager to finally share something for once. A broad smile spread across his weathered face, showing a rare moment of satisfaction.


    Igor''s mind wandered back to one year ago, the day he found the boy, frail and beaten, lying on the street. He had been cautious about hiring anyone, especially someone from Ruddia, but the kid was different¡ªisolated, easy to control.


    He had seen and done enough to know this was an opportunity. So he took the boy in, offering him food and shelter. The next day, Igor made a few calls. A new identity was quickly forged, complete with a fake name and backstory. The boy would never know the truth¡ªhe would just be an employee at the caf¨¦, an Ameritan.


    And all the connections between the kid and him¡ªbetween the kid and them¡ªcouldn''t be traced. It had been perfect, far better than hiring random Ameritans. He knew that once the randoms heard or saw even a single thing, the next day they''d end up in the grinder.


    As to avoid giving him the fate of the grinder, he had been prepared to fire him: maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow and maybe not the next month, but someday.


    However, now it was a different story altogether.


    Since even after a year of having Viktor working there, there were no ''problems'' caused whatsoever, fortifying his upcoming decision to keep the kid there full-time.


    And oh he knew that Victor had already seen stuff but kept quiet all the time.


    "Listen here, kid. I''m from Ruddia, and in Ruddia, things like this happen, planned by the president who controls the media. So, it''s not impossible that this shit hole does the same."


    "The president does?" Victor asked.


    "Da. The president, to get votes or whatever."


    Victor thought about both options and decided to leave it unresolved. His head buzzed and ached.


    "Go, kid."


    Ah, finally¡ªthose were the words and the time he had waited for all day.


    "When do I come in tomorrow?" Victor asked.


    "Tomorrow. Rest. When you come in next time, bring your stuff with you. You''ll be living here with me from now on." Igor''s words were clear and direct, typical of an order.


    The boy Victor replied with an uneven yet satisfied smile. He had thought about a question or two but quickly dismissed it.


    Why ''rest''  was one of the questions.


    And the answer was right at the doors...


    ...

 The Story Begins

    The doorknob turned, pressed down by a man in his 20s with short brown hair and a muscular frame.


    Creak.


    Victor glanced to his right, spotting the man entering the caf¨¦ and immediately stepping to the side to hold the door open.


    Igor, seated nearby, coughed up smoke he''d been about to inhale, hurriedly stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray as he stood.


    Three more men appeared at the doorway.


    The one leading the group was tall, with voluminous black hair and a face tattoo. He wore a sleek black suit, its material gleaming faintly under the caf¨¦''s exterior lights. Subtle patterns adorned the fabric, the kind you''d miss at first glance but couldn''t unsee once noticed. His face, though not handsome, held an undeniable presence.


    Behind him stood two bald men, their suits cheaper and ill-fitted by comparison.


    Tk. Tk. Tk.


    The leader''s polished black shoes clicked against the floor as he entered, followed by his companions. The doorman closed the door behind them.


    "Igorr! Long time no see, brother," the leader called out, arms wide in mock camaraderie as he approached casually for a hug.


    Victor looked down immediately, out of respect¡ªor was it fear? He had always suspected Igor''s "friends" were dangerous men.


    Igor didn''t return the embrace, standing stiff as the man clapped his back. They exchanged words in Ruddian, the man looking at Victor from time to time, with Igor growing visibly defensive, repeating the phrase "Brat Domag" as if pleading.


    The man, Domag, chuckled, his gaze sliding to Victor once more. With a single word and a pointed gesture at the exit, he dismissed him.


    Victor obeyed, keeping his head down and his steps cautious as he exited the caf¨¦.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Closing the door behind him, he muttered venomously, "I should''ve left earlier."


    It was his own fault, he realized bitterly. He''d wasted too much time watching the news instead of simply heading home, though he had no real home to speak of.


    Were it not for Igor, that boy would''ve ended up in a grinder just for taking a singular look at the man''s, Brat Domag''s, face.


    He took a step forward, but something caught his eye. The bulb above him flickered erratically. At first, it seemed like a dying light, nothing unusual. But then the streetlights followed suit, blinking on and off.


    A cacophony of car alarms erupted in unison, filling the street. The wind picked up, tugging at loose dirt and trash, swirling it in a linear pattern. From point A of any angle to point B keeping the angle.


    Victor''s gaze darted from the flickering bulb to the caf¨¦''s glass-paneled door. Inside, the men were on high alert. The doorman reached for the handle, while the two suited men moved Domag toward a corner. Igor stood frozen.


    Victor turned back to the street, his unease growing. Was this about to become a gang fight? Or a coincidence? He wasn''t sure. The timing of everything¡ªthe lights, the wind, the alarms¡ªfelt too coincidental.


    Eight feet ahead of him, white lines began to snake up from the ground. At first, they appeared random, meaningless scribbles, but they quickly morphed into erratic shapes and patterns. The lines climbed higher, forming a towering structure with gaps that filled in rapidly, creating a textured, paper-like surface.


    All of this happened in seconds. He didn''t even have time to think about escaping. Hesitation had cost him dearly.


    His legs trembled as the wind grew stronger, pulling everything into the strange mass. Dirt, trash, even the air itself was being consumed.


    Victor stumbled backward toward the caf¨¦ door, his mind racing. He could have gone back inside, away from the pull. He could have run while he still had the chance. But he didn''t. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was... Or maybe, deep down, he had given up long ago.


    He slid his hands into his pockets, a hollow yet satisfied laugh escaping his lips. "Better than dying some other way, I guess..." he muttered, his voice laced with bitter acceptance.


    The pull became inescapable, drawing him closer to the mass.


    BAM!


    The caf¨¦ windows shattered, glass shards flying in every direction. The door splintered, and black smoke burst out in fiery plumes, consuming everything in its path. The sound was deafening, leaving his ears ringing with a high-pitched whine.


    Victor blinked, his vision fading.


    Then there was nothing. No sound, no light, no sensation. Only darkness.


    His voice echoed in the void. "What. Where am I? Am I... dead?"


    The silence answered him, reverberating his words back as if mocking him.


    Then a voice broke through, calm and resonant with apparently no gender to it, speaking directly into his mind.


    [Welcome, human.]


    [Your story has potential.]


    Victor froze, unable to respond, as the blackness shifted around him.