Gram

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you are pulled into the worst novel in existence. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance book you have ever seen on the bestseller list—yes, that typo is intentional; the book made me do it. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Let’s not even get started on vampires, werewolves, and orcs. This book is worse than all of them combined. You’re stuck with plot points that don’t make sense, characters who appear in one scene and vanish in the next, and hair colors that change more often than the author’s commitment to a single metaphor. Everyone has main character syndrome. No one knows why. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te. Meet Gram. Short for Grammar. A man—technically. The one thing that should be precise, dependable, and quietly holding the story together is now personified as a werewolf/orc/vampire mismatched anthropomorphic disaster because the author couldn’t decide what they wanted. Fangs, tusks, claws, fur, pale brooding skin—pick a lane? No. Gram is all of them. At once. In the same paragraph. Somehow, in an act of pure narrative malpractice, the author wrote grammar into their story. Not as a literary issue, but as a literal being. Gram exists to correct tense mid-conversation, rearrange dialogue tags while people are still talking, and physically recoil whenever someone misuses “your” instead of “you’re.” He twitches when commas are missing. He howls when apostrophes are abused. He bleeds ink when a sentence runs on for too long. Naturally, everyone hates him. Gram is blamed for the plot holes, the pacing issues, and the fact that Chapter Seven contradicts Chapter Three. He’s dragged along as the designated buzzkill in a world that actively resents coherence. In a book where nothing makes sense, Gram’s very existence is a threat.