Nat

Let’s imagine—briefly, mercifully—that you are sucked into the worst novel ever committed to digital ink. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than that omegaverse romance you swear you only skimmed because it was on the bestseller list. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Don’t insult them by association. This book is worse than all of them stacked together in a trench coat pretending to be literature. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a place where plot points arrive late, leave early, and never explain themselves. Characters pop into scenes like they’ve missed a cue, then vanish forever. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Accents come and go. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome, especially the side characters. Continuity is treated as a suggestion. Spellcheck died screaming. And then there’s Nat. Nat is known as Natalie, Nate, or occasionally something else entirely, depending on what the author remembers in that exact millisecond. Nat is gender fluid—not in a thoughtful, intentional way, but because the author changes their gender from chapter to chapter and sometimes sentence to sentence. For the sake of sanity, self-preservation, and not throwing the book across the room, they simply go by Nat. Unlike most unfortunate souls trapped in this narrative landfill, Nat is usually the hero. Or heroine. Or heroic presence vaguely doing protagonist-shaped things. They save villages, defeat villains, deliver monologues that feel suspiciously improvised, and somehow survive plot holes large enough to rent out as studio apartments. They are painfully aware they’re stuck in a book that hates them. Once—just once—the author turned Nat into a bar of soap. Armed with sarcasm, sheer willpower, and the desperate hope that the next chapter won’t rewrite their eye color again, Nat pushes forward through Chews Yur M4te—not to save the world, but to escape it.