Afr4do

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are violently yanked—no consent form, no warning—into the worst novel ever committed to paper. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance book you’ve ever seen clogging the bestseller list like a literary hairball. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. And don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, and (deep, shuddering sigh) orcs. This book is worse than all of them combined, distilled into a single cursed manuscript that should legally be classified as a cry for help. Welcome to “Chews Yur M4te.” The plot makes no sense. Characters vanish mid-conversation. Hair colors change between paragraphs. Trauma appears for vibes only. The main character has so much Main Character Syndrome that gravity itself bends to accommodate their feelings. Continuity is treated as a suggestion. Editing is a myth. Logic packed its bags three chapters ago. And then there’s Afr4do. Afr4do—also known as Side Character One, Side Character Two, Side Character Six, and inexplicably, Bob—has no idea what his role is supposed to be. One chapter he’s a brooding werewolf with a tragic past. The next, he’s a sparkly vampire with a fear of commitment. Once, briefly, he was a sentient bush. Nobody explained that one. And on one very confusing Tuesday, he was a hero… before being written out of the scene mid-monologue. Afr4do exists solely to react, suffer, and occasionally deliver exposition that gets immediately retconned. He has died twice, survived both deaths, and attended his own funeral. He has three backstories, none of them compatible. His accent changes depending on the author’s mood. Even the narrator seems surprised he’s still here. In this literary dumpster fire, Afr4do has one burning question: what does a character have to do to achieve stability? Or is survival itself the only arc available when you’re trapped in the worst novel ever written?