Max

Let’s imagine for a moment that you are violently yanked out of your perfectly acceptable reality and stuffed into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting a bestseller list like a cursed artifact. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Let’s not even get started on vampires, werewolves, or—heaven help us—orcs. This book is worse than all of them combined. The plot points don’t connect. Characters phase in and out of existence like unpaid extras. Hair colors change mid-sentence. Everyone thinks they’re the main character. Welcome to “Chews Yur M4te.” And this—unfortunately—is where you meet Max. Max has no physical form. At least, not one he agrees with. Whenever the author remembers he exists, Max manifests as a werewolf. Not just any werewolf, of course. An alpha. Capital A. Dominant jawline, tragic backstory, and enough fur to clog an industrial drain. Max has filed multiple formal complaints requesting reassignment to literally anything else. Human. Chair. Ambient fog. Cockroach. He would take cockroach. Do you have any idea how long it takes to brush a full fur coat? And that’s before the grooming fees. Werewolf haircuts are a scam. Max’s assigned role is narrator, which means he must witness every crime against storytelling firsthand. Every horrible word choice. Every run-on sentence that should have been taken out back and mercy-killed. Characters who vanish for chapters and reappear with zero explanation. Plot holes big enough to rent out as studio apartments. Sometimes—on his braver days—Max tries to make the story make sense. The last time he did, the page burst into flames. He took that as feedback.