The dim light of a desk lamp buzzed faintly in a cramped apartment, littered with half-finished coffee cups, scribbled notes, and crumpled takeout containers. A ceiling fan turned lazily above, pushing warm air in slow circles. Through a cracked window, the distant hum of city life drifted in—muffled cars, a barking dog, someone shouting in frustration two blocks away.

  At the cluttered desk sat a young man in his late twenties, with tired eyes and long, unkempt black hair. His name was Noah, and he stared at his laptop screen as if it were a riddle from a forgotten dream.

  “The hero lunged forward, shielding the girl from the creature’s claws. She gasped, clinging to his arm. ‘You okay?’ he asked, chest heaving.

  ‘You’re… um… pretty… I mean, safe. I meant safe.’”

  Noah groaned and dragged both hands down his face. “God, what am I even doing…”

  With one frustrated motion, he hit backspace—held it—and deleted the entire paragraph in a single breath. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.

  “How the hell am I supposed to write a hero talking to a girl,” he muttered, “when I can’t even look one in the eye without panicking?”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He sighed, closed the laptop with a soft click, and reached for his pack of cigarettes.

  The city air was cooler than expected. Noah pulled his jacket tighter and lit a cigarette with a cheap plastic lighter that nearly failed him.

  He took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl into the night sky. His sneakers echoed along the cracked sidewalks. The streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional car sliding by, music leaking faintly through rolled-down windows.

  He walked until he reached a bridge overlooking the dark, slow-moving river. There, he leaned against the railing, cigarette burning low between his fingers. In a tired voice, he murmured:

  >“Maybe I should just write a story called ‘Noah, the Awful Writer."

  >"The intro would be: ‘Noah was a 28-year-old man with a computer science degree who foolishly decided to become a writer.

  Best part? He can’t even write a hero story.’”

  He gave a bitter chuckle.Then, after a long pause, something flickered in his eyes— a stubborn glow of quiet optimism, small but persistent—like the final ember in a dying campfire.

  “No... I will finish the story. Remember, Noah: Fight on. Never yield. Stay strong till the end.”

  The wind tugged at his coat like a friend nudging him forward. He smirked, muttering with a playful shake of his head,

  “Also... I really need to stop talking to myself. If I keep this up, I’m going to end up crazy.” And with that, he took one last drag, flicked the cigarette into the river, and turned back toward the city.