Plot Armor Agency

Click... Click... Click...

The sound of frantic typing filled the dark, cramped room. The only light came from the screen, its glow casting weird, ghostly shadows across piles of crumpled snack wrappers and half-empty cans of Red Bull. The air was thick with the stale stench of instant noodles and desperation. Sitting hunched over the keyboard was a boy—though that might be generous; more like a creature. Hair sticking up in every direction, eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark circles like he hadn't slept in days… because he hadn't.

He was a mess, a haggard, smelly, awful-looking mess of a human being. But he was on a mission. His fingers pounded the keys, rapid-fire, a machine-gun rhythm of pure, manic energy. Click. Click. Click. Each keystroke felt like a battle cry against the legion of trolls who dared to challenge his genius.

His bloodshot eyes scanned the screen, darting back and forth across the never-ending flood of comments. "This plot makes no sense." "You call this writing?" "Did you fail every creative writing class, or just most of them?" He snorted, rolling his eyes so hard they almost disappeared into his skull.

"Bitch, what do you know?" he muttered under his breath, fingers smashing down on the keyboard as he replied to one particularly idiotic comment. "You wouldn't know a masterpiece if it bit you in the ass."

He leaned back for a second, rubbing his temples, a twisted smile curling his lips. "Peasants," he whispered with a venomous chuckle. "All of you. Ungrateful peasants. You should be worshipping me for this masterful novel, like rabid dogs drooling over a piece of meat."

His eyes blazed with a mix of fury and caffeinated madness. He took a long gulp of Red Bull, slamming the can down on his desk with a clatter. "Come on, give me your worst," he growled at the screen, as if daring the faceless masses to attack him harder.

Then, amid the sea of hate, insults, and the occasional poorly spelled praise, one comment made him pause. Just for a second. The words seemed to shimmer on the screen, brighter than the rest, almost like they were glowing:

"Wanna change the storylines of billions of novels with your plot armor?"

He blinked, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "The hell?" he muttered, leaning closer to the screen. His greasy hair flopped into his eyes, and he shoved it back, squinting at the comment. Was this some new kind of troll? Some weirdo trying to mess with him? Or… or maybe they actually got it?

He laughed, a short, sharp bark of a laugh that echoed around his filthy room. "Yeah, right," he sneered, fingers itching to type back something sarcastic, something cutting. "You think you can just come in here and—"

But something stopped him. Maybe it was the way the words seemed to pulse, alive with some strange energy. Maybe it was the fact that no username was attached to the comment, just a blank space, like the internet itself was speaking to him. Or maybe… maybe he was just so sleep-deprived he was starting to hallucinate.

He glanced at the empty cans and crumpled snack bags. "Okay, maybe I've had too much caffeine," he mumbled, but his eyes never left the screen. The comment seemed to be… waiting. Beckoning.

"Ah, screw it," he muttered, clicking on the text.

The second his finger hit the mouse, the screen went black. His room plunged into total darkness, the glow of the monitor snuffed out like a candle in a storm. "Shit," he cursed, slamming his fist on the desk. "Did my piece-of-crap computer just die on me now?"

But before he could move, the screen flared back to life. Colors swirled, shapes shifted, like his computer had been hijacked by some insane graphic designer on an acid trip. And then, slowly, a shadowy figure emerged from the chaos, as if forming from the pixels themselves.

The figure's voice came out slowly, like a record scratched up by the Devil himself:

"Wanna…" The screen flickered.

"Change…" His heart thudded.

"The…" His breath caught.

"Storylines…" Was he going mad?

"Of…" Sweat dripped down his temple.

"Billions…"

"Of…"

"Novels…?"

He stared, slack-jawed, as the words hung in the air like a twisted omen. Then, the figure's tone grew darker, more sinister: "Penalty for failure? Your worthless existence. Your fate. Every word you type, cursed to hell. You've got a spine, kid, but do you have the guts to change the world?"

A grin spread across his face, slow and deranged. His breath was coming out in ragged, wild gasps. Then he burst into a deep, guttural laugh—a madman's laugh, a villain's laugh. "Hahaha!" He threw his head back, letting the sound echo through his filthy room. "Just wait for me, peasants… Just wait."

His fingers hovered over the keys, trembling with excitement, the words tumbling out in a crazed mumble. "I'm gonna show all of you. Every single one of you trolls and losers. Just wait… You think I'm a joke now? You have no idea what I'm capable of."

And the figure on the screen? It watched. And waited.

With a reckless, feverish grin, he clicked the screen once more, defying everything with the pressure of his finger. And then…

His entire body lurched forward, like he'd been yanked by some unseen force. The room around him dissolved, the walls crumbling into pixels, the floor dropping out from under him. He fell, or at least, he felt like he did—like falling through a bottomless void. His stomach turned, his heart racing with a mix of terror and wild, uncontrollable excitement.

He slammed onto solid ground. The air knocked out of his lungs, and he blinked, gasping. Slowly, he pushed himself up to his knees, taking in his surroundings.

He was in… space. But not the empty, silent kind. This was something else—a strange space where the horizon was an endless expanse of star-strewn galaxies, spiraling and stretching as far as the eye could see. Milky Ways upon Milky Ways, constellations tangled together like a cosmic spider web, glowing in an eerie, almost unnatural light. There was a slight mechanical hum in the air, like the sound of a great machine breathing.

He looked down and saw Earth—a small, blue dot far, far below him, as if he was standing on some glass-like surface suspended in the heavens. A transparent wall separated him from the vastness of space, like a window into infinity.

A screen, floating in mid-air like a ghostly apparition, materialized before him. It was unreal, but so real—defying all logic, yet somehow there. Words glowed on the screen in bright, electric blue. He stared at them, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

The top of the screen read:

NAME: [ERROR: UNKNOWN]

Below it, there were several lines of text. Most were blurred, locked, or obscured by static, like someone had taken a redacted document and fed it through a digital shredder. But one line was clear, standing out against the rest:

"Plot Armor Genius."

He laughed—a low, mad chuckle. "Damn right," he muttered, his grin stretching wide across his face. "Who the hell else would it be?"

He leaned in closer, trying to read the blurred-out sections, but they were unreadable, a mass of digital noise and static. His name? Gone. His past? Locked behind some kind of firewall he couldn't penetrate. All he had was this new title: Plot Armor Genius.

"Well, that's new," he mumbled to himself. "So, what now?"

The screen flickered, and a new message appeared:

"Welcome to the Plot Armor Agency. Your mission begins now."

He smirked, licking his dry lips, his eyes wild and glittering with excitement. "Alright, whatever you are, whatever this is… I'm in. Let's rewrite some goddamn reality."