The screen froze on the final frame, and Mordecai Grimm felt an urge to scream until his throat bled.
He sat hunched in the dim glow of his cramped apartment, the only light coming from the monitor that now displayed a travesty of storytelling.
The villain, a being of god-tier power, centuries of scheming, armies at his command, and literal plot armor woven from fate itself, had just delivered a five-minute monologue.
Five. Full. Minutes. He detailed his tragic backstory, grand philosophy, and inevitable victory.
Meanwhile, the hero, a wide-eyed teenager who had known the villain for all of two weeks, stood there crying.
Then came the "power of friendship," kicking in like a cheap deus ex machina on steroids: a burst of golden light, a convenient power-up, and one punch later, the villain exploded into sparkles.
Mordecai's grip tightened around his half-empty energy drink can until it crumpled in his hand.
"He had everything," he hissed into the empty room. "God-tier powers. An empire. Actual narrative weight. And he lost because he talked for five goddamn minutes? This is criminal! It's a crime against art!"
His voice cracked as frustration bubbled up inside him; words wouldn't come fast enough anymore, especially not at 3:47 a.m., after yet another twelve-hour binge.
He slammed the can down on his desk, sending empty ramen cups scattering across its surface. The monitor flickered once more as if mocking him.
For ten long years, Mordecai Grimm had lived this way. By day, he was a ghost in a soulless editing job, fixing other people's mediocre manuscripts for a publishing house that cared more about market trends than craft.
By night, he sought refuge in what still felt alive: webnovels, manhwa, anime, anything with stakes that promised clever villains and airtight plots where protagonists earned their victories.
Instead, he kept stumbling upon the same tired tropes.
Leaning back in his creaking chair with eyes burning from too many sleepless hours, he let memories flood back like a greatest-hits reel of literary war crimes, the various endings that infuriated him replaying like an unending train.
There was the invincible demon emperor who spent three chapters explaining his master plan to the captured hero only to be betrayed by his loyal subordinate who suddenly developed a conscience because "love changed him."
This emperor had literally conquered continents; he commanded an army of millions and wielded forbidden magic capable of erasing souls, but he died because he trusted someone at precisely the wrong moment.
Then there was the ancient vampire lord who underestimated a teenage protagonist so badly that he let the kid live "to watch him suffer."
Three chapters later, this kid awakened some bloodline power fueled by "the power of friendship" and one-shot the vampire with one wooden stake that somehow bypassed immortality.
The dark overlord, sending wave after wave of cannon-fodder minions to "test" the hero, conveniently handed the protagonist free experience points and plot-relevant power-ups. Each minion existed solely to meet a creatively gruesome end while monologuing about how unbeatable their master was.
Then there was the tragic fallen hero turned villain who spared his childhood sweetheart because "she still believes in me." Two weeks of on-screen romance later, she plunged a holy sword into his back, tears streaming down her face as she professed her love.
And let's not forget the crown jewel, the archetype that always made Mordecai want to throw his laptop out the window: the Madara-style villain.
This god-like warlord had planned for every contingency except for standing in the middle of a battlefield, delivering a philosophical speech about peace through absolute control while the hero powered up in the background.
Every single time.
Every. Single. Time.
Mordecai dragged his hands down his face, feeling stubble scrape against his palms. At thirty-four years old, he had no family left worth mentioning, no friends who understood why he cared so much about fictional villains, and a bank account that mocked the very idea of savings.
All he had was this apartment that smelled of instant noodles and regret and an unyielding conviction that someone needed to fix this broken system of storytelling.
The screen flickered again. The "The End" card lingered like a taunt.
He let out a hollow laugh, an ugly sound.
"This is why stories die," he muttered bitterly. "Because no one has the guts to let the villain win when they actually deserve it. Because 'power of friendship' is apparently stronger than a thousand years of preparation. Because underestimation isn't just a flaw; it's a death sentence written into narrative law."
His chest tightened, but he ignored it, he had been ignoring it for months.
"Plot armor so thick you could build a fortress out of it. Cannon fodder existing solely to make the hero look cool. Lovers who barely know each other pulling off miracles that would make actual gods blush. And those poor, beautifully crafted villains? They always lose because they talked too much or hesitated or trusted the wrong person at just the wrong moment."
His breathing grew shallow as dizziness crept in.
He gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles turned white.
"I swear on every bad ending I've ever suffered through… if I ever got the chance, I'd teach those idiots how to actually win: No monologues. No mercy. No second chances. Kill the hero before he becomes a threat; steal that cheat item before breakfast; break emotional anchors before they even form! I'd create a place where villains learn not to be their own worst enemies..."
Then pain hit him like a sledgehammer.
It began as a sharp pain in his left arm, quickly morphing into a searing grip across his chest. Mordecai gasped, desperately clawing at his shirt.
The monitor before him swayed in and out of focus, the "The End" card dissolving into a blur of meaningless pixels.
No. Not like this.
He attempted to stand, but his legs betrayed him. The chair rolled back, sending him crashing to the floor and toppling over a stack of empty cans. Pain surged through him now, an overwhelming weight that squeezed the breath from his lungs and dimmed his vision to gray at the edges.
His last coherent thought was steeped in bitter irony.
Of course. Of course the final boss in this pathetic game of life would be a heart attack brought on by righteous fury over bad writing. How perfectly cliché.
The world around him shrank to a single point of light — the monitor still glowing above him, frozen on that image of the villain's defeat.
Then even that flickered away.
Darkness enveloped everything.
Silence reigned.
For one brief moment, there was nothing: no pain, no anger, no endless cycle of inept villains falling victim to plot contrivances.
Then a voice sliced through the void, smooth and cultured, laced with dry amusement.
[ Host detected.]
The words wrapped around him like silk over steel.
[ Name: Mordecai Grimm.]
[ Age: thirty-four. ]
[ Occupation: underpaid editor and professional critic of narrative incompetence. ]
[ Extreme trope hatred level: Critical.]
[ Psychological profile: ideal.]
There was a pause; the voice almost sounded… pleased.
[ Binding Villain Architect System… complete.]
A crimson panel materialized in the darkness, its edges sharp as broken glass, text glowing like fresh blood.
[ Congratulations, Professor Grimm. You have been chosen to rectify what every other story got wrong. Your mission is straightforward: train villains who actually deserve to win.]
The panel pulsed once like a heartbeat.
[ Welcome to hell, Professor.]
And somewhere within that endless blackness, Mordecai Grimm smiled for the first time in years.