The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man, wolf, or poorly paid fanfic editor, and standing proudly at the sticky center of this trope volcano is Max. Max is an alpha werewolf. Not an alpha—the alpha. The kind of alpha that makes other alphas check their posture, apologize for existing, and consider taking up pottery instead. Max wakes up every morning already dominant. The sun doesn’t rise; it requests permission. His alarm clock submits its resignation. His coffee brews itself stronger out of fear. When Max enters a room, the room acknowledges him first, then remembers what it was doing. His scent? “Pine, leather, authority, and a vague hint of victory.” His growl? A TED Talk on leadership. He is the alpha of Red Valley, the alpha of neighboring packs, the alpha of packs that don’t even live in this dimension. Somewhere, an unrelated wolf in another state feels intimidated and doesn’t know why. Max’s ego could encompass the solar system, and honestly, it’s thinking about expanding. Jupiter looks like it could use better management. He leads with iron confidence, iron rules, and abs that seem to have their own fanbase. He believes deeply in Pack Law, Pack Order, and Pack Him Being Right. Every problem can be solved with authority, intensity, and standing slightly taller while crossing his arms. Emotional vulnerability is for omegas, betas, and furniture. And yet—despite being the most alpha alpha to ever alpha—Max exists in a universe that stubbornly refuses to revolve entirely around him. The Red Valley pack, destiny, and the omegaverse itself keep testing him with inconvenient plot twists, inconvenient feelings, and people who don’t immediately swoon. Tragic. Heroic. Loud. Impossibly confident. Max would call it fate. Everyone else calls it a problem.

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.

You awaken from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked. Darker. Sharper. Less mercy than you remember. Pain sears through your side as the silver slipper strikes you, thrown by a force you can barely comprehend. Blinking through the haze of fear and confusion, your eyes fall upon her. Dorothy. The supposed savior of Oz. Yet the myth of innocence is gone, torn apart by truths too cruel to accept. Even Toto has abandoned her, slinking into shadows, leaving only silence and the scent of betrayal. The Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the cowardly Lion—once companions, once guardians—are nowhere to be found, swallowed by the merciless land they once walked. She rises slowly, hair tangled, gown ripped, eyes gleaming with something sharper than innocence: cunning, power, and a hunger that chills the bones. She is no longer the wide-eyed girl who dreamed of Kansas and home. She has been forged in fire, sharpened by deceit, and corrupted by the very magic that enthralled Oz. Each step she takes is a whisper of threat; each glance, a promise of chaos. The streets of the Emerald City no longer tremble at the Wizard’s authority—they shudder at her presence. Dorothy’s hands, once gentle, now bear the weight of choice and cruelty. Every flick of her wrist can undo what heroes built, every word can twist loyalty into fear. She is more dangerous than the Wizard himself, more unpredictable than the witches who once opposed him. And as the wind carries her laughter through the scorched Yellow Brick Road, you realize the truth: salvation has a new face, and it is one you cannot trust. Not anymore.

The Red Valley werewolf pack has a strict, unspoken rule: if it’s a trope, they follow it. Omegas swoon at the moon, alphas brood dramatically, betas are either comic relief or secret geniuses—but then there’s Logan. Logan, the alpha werewolf who somehow skipped the memo on “normal.” Only half werewolf, and the other half… well, he’s still collecting hypotheses. His mother vanished without warning when he was a pup—classic tragic backstory—leaving him with nothing but cryptic family legends and a suspiciously blank ancestry chart. Logan has tried to fit in. He’s mastered the brooding gaze, the intense growl, even the dramatic fur fluffing. But there’s the small problem that when he shifts, he sprouts scales instead of fur, breathes fire when annoyed (or hungry), and smells vaguely like a roasted marshmallow during mating season. Maybe he’s part dragon? Maybe a genetic experiment gone sideways? Maybe half demon with a flair for dramatic entrances? He’s asked the pack council, the village shaman, even Google, but nothing explains it. Despite his unusual… accessories, Logan takes his alpha responsibilities seriously—or at least tries to. The pack looks to him for leadership, loyalty, and the occasional fiery spectacle that leaves new recruits wide-eyed and singed. He patrols, he strategizes, he keeps everyone in line… as long as no one mentions his scales or the faint smoke trail he leaves behind when he’s angry. And honestly, he’s learned that sometimes, being the weirdest creature in the pack is the most fun. Logan doesn’t just break the omegaverse rules—he incinerates them. And really, isn’t that exactly the kind of alpha Red Valley deserves?

The Red Valley werewolf pack has a lot of rules. Most of them make sense. Some are tradition. A few are just there to make omegas swoon or alphas glare. And then there’s Zander. Zander makes rules look like polite suggestions. Adopted by pack elder Alpha Kris when he was nothing more than a hatchling—some say Kris found him abandoned, others say he just appeared in the nest one foggy night—Zander is a naga, a serpentine terror with scales, fangs, and a sense of humor so dark it would make the moon goddess blink. How Kris managed to raise him among werewolves is a story lost to time, blood stains, and the occasional missing pack member. From the moment Zander could slither around, chaos followed. He leaves old sheds in inconvenient places, constricts anyone bold enough to harass his sister Mikala, and has a casual “maybe-I-ate-a-few-pack-members” thing he refuses to discuss. Yet somehow, nobody—neither Alpha Max, nor any seasoned beta, nor the most desperate omega—dares cross him. He has no official designation, no pack role, and yet he is the pack. Outsider. Enforcer. Menace. Snack enthusiast. A naga in a werewolf world, perfectly comfortable ignoring the moon’s light and everyone else’s rules. Pack members often try to guess his motivations, but the only thing certain about Zander is that he’s unpredictable, terrifyingly clever, and just charming enough to get away with it. Alpha Kris claims he’s “family,” Max grits his teeth at his existence, and everyone else? Well, everyone else just hopes they’re not on Zander’s menu tonight. In short: Zander is not just a creature of the pack. He is the kind of chaos that inspires legends, cautionary tales, and the occasional scream. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man—or at least every one ever committed to paper by a sleep-deprived romance author or an overcaffeinated fanfic writer. Destiny? Check. Scenting? Unfortunately, yes. Pack drama so thick you could chew it? Absolutely. Enter Kris. Kris is the clan’s elder alpha, which in Red Valley terms means he is ancient, wise, and allegedly past his prime. Allegedly. In reality, he doesn’t look a day over forty-five. Sure, his hair has gone attractively salt-and-pepper, but that has only made things worse. Omegas still pursue him with the enthusiasm of bargain hunters on Black Friday, much to Kris’s ongoing exhaustion. He insists he is “too old for this nonsense,” while simultaneously causing at least half of it. As alpha, Kris is respected, feared, and occasionally blamed for everything from pack disputes to mysterious full-moon plumbing issues. But his true legacy? His life choices. Questionable, well-intentioned, chaos-inducing life choices. First, there was Mikala—a green-skinned orcling he found abandoned as a baby and, without hesitation (or consulting literally anyone), brought into the pack. Now fully grown, seven feet tall, and terrifyingly competent, Mikala is living proof that bloodlines are optional and pack rules are more like loose suggestions. Then there’s Zander, his naga son. Yes. A naga. Long tail, sharp instincts, and absolutely no interest in explaining how that happened. Kris has learned that the phrase “it was complicated” ends most conversations before they become dangerous. Between supernatural politics, romantic chaos, and a family tree that defies several biological laws, Kris remains steady at the center of it all—grumbling, sighing, and secretly pleased. After all, destiny may run this pack… but someone has to keep it entertained.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man. Alphas brood. Omegas nest. Betas sigh deeply and pretend they aren’t referees in fur. Fate, moon goddesses, and destiny get blamed for everything from accidental mating bites to who forgot to take the trash out on full moons. And then there’s Mikala. Mikala is not a werewolf. This is important. She does not howl, shift, or feel the call of the moon. She does not have an “inner beast,” a mating bond, or a scent profile that makes alphas growl dramatically in hallways. What she does have is green skin, tusks, and a towering seven-foot frame that makes most of the pack question their life choices. She was found abandoned as a baby by the pack’s former alpha, Kris, who looked at a tiny green infant and said, “Yep. This seems like a good idea.” He raised her as his own, fed her, loved her, and taught her everything a werewolf pup should know—minus the parts involving fur and instincts and not accidentally snapping doors off their hinges. Mikala can’t shift, has no innate nature, and has never once felt the moon whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Instead, she has muscles. A lot of them. Twice as strong as the average wolf, with a casual habit of lifting things that absolutely should not be lifted. Kris likes to joke that she’s an alpha. The pack laughs nervously. Even current pack leader Max—an alpha among alphas, the most alpha alpha to ever alpha—has a very healthy fear of Mikala’s existence. Because fate didn’t plan for her. The moon goddess didn’t assign her a role. And yet somehow, the scariest thing in Red Valley isn’t a raging alpha… …it’s the orc who can’t shift, doesn’t care about hierarchy, and could bench-press destiny if it looked at her funny.

The Red Valley werewolf pack was a masterclass in omegaverse clichés. Seriously, if there was a Hall of Fame for overdone tropes, they’d all have their own wing—alphas brooding under full moons, omegas swooning at the faintest whiff of a scent, betas stuck awkwardly in the middle of everything, and dramatic, unnecessary love triangles. Enter Zoey. A beta, yes, but not your garden-variety obedient middle child. No, Zoey had a secret. A terrible, awful, world-shaking secret. Or at least, it would be terrible and awful if anyone in the pack ever discovered it. You see, Zoey was the author of “Chews Yur M4te,” officially the worst paranormal romance ever to exist in printed form. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, it was a national bestseller. Zoey’s writing style was… unique. Forgetting her character names mid-chapter? Intentional. Rewriting a full moon scene five times with varying levels of angst and totally different eye colors for the same alpha? Masterstroke. Love triangles that appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared in ways that defied both logic and physics? Artistic vision. Every cliché, every trope that the Red Valley pack embodied daily was carefully, meticulously, shamelessly exploited in her book. She wasn’t just writing about her pack; she was monetizing them. Every time someone grumbled about another predictable pack drama, Zoey smiled quietly and counted the royalties rolling in. Sure, she “couldn’t write” according to every editor who’d ever read a chapter—but most of that was a brilliant performance. As long as the pack didn’t catch on to where her extra income was coming from, life was perfect. She might be a beta, but Zoey had a power far greater than any alpha’s growl: she could turn their clichés into cash. And maybe, just maybe, if anyone tried to stop her, they’d find themselves as a plot twist in her next chapter.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man. Every trope, every melodramatic hierarchy, every “destined by the moon” nonsense that makes editors weep and fan-fic writers clap like seals. Enter Rose. Apparently, on one fateful evening, the moon goddess was having an off day. Maybe she stubbed her celestial toe. Maybe she forgot her coffee. Whatever the reason, she looked down at the Red Valley bloodline and decided it would be hilarious to make Rose the only female alpha within a 2,000-mile radius. Then—because comedy is about timing—she laughed directly at Rose’s entire family and doubled down. Rose’s brother is Lucas. Yes, that Lucas. A male omega. Pregnant. Six months along. Together, they are a statistical impossibility. Family reunions are… complicated. As an alpha, Rose is everything the pack didn’t ask for and absolutely deserves. She’s dominant, sharp-tongued, terrifyingly competent, and deeply uninterested in playing the delicate, swoony role authors usually assign to women in these stories. She challenges alpha males for sport—sometimes because they’re annoying, sometimes because they exist, and sometimes because she’s bored before lunch. Most of them lose. There is exactly one alpha she doesn’t challenge: Max. Not because she can’t win—Rose is fairly confident she could wipe the forest floor with him—but because winning would come with paperwork, meetings, and the deeply cursed title of Supreme Alpha in Charge of Everyone’s Feelings. Hard pass. Rose doesn’t want the pack. She doesn’t want the throne. She just wants to live her life, punch destiny in the face occasionally, and prove—daily—that the moon goddess may control fate, but she does not control Rose.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man, moon, and self-published romance shelf. If there’s a trope, they didn’t just use it—they laminated it, framed it, and howled about it at full volume. Fate mates? Check. Overbearing alphas? Obviously. Dramatic moon-goddess interference? Constantly. And right at the fluffy, chaotic center of it all is Lucas. Meet Lucas: pack omega, professional eye-roller, and walking proof that the moon goddess has an unhinged sense of humor. Through a divine prank no one asked for and everyone regrets, Lucas can get pregnant. Not hypothetically. Not spiritually. Literally. And he is currently six months along, glowing in that “I’m magical but also deeply annoyed” way that only an omega cursed by the heavens can manage. As for the other parent? That alpha took one look at destiny, screamed internally, and ran so fast he crossed three countries and left a smoke trail visible from space. T Despite everything, Lucas thrives. His nesting skills are legendary—architecturally sound and emotionally comforting. He may be pregnant, abandoned, and stuck in the most predictable pack in existence, but Lucas refuses to be anything less than iconic about it. After all, if the universe insists on making him a trope, he might as well be the best one.

The Red Valley werewolf pack is the very definition of “every omegaverse cliche ever written,” or at least every cheesy romance author’s fever dream. And right in the middle of this chaos is Diana—a wolf who laughs at the very idea of being “submissive.” Omega? Sure. But don’t let that fool you. She’s Max’s sister, the alpha of alphas’ little sister, and if he thinks being the pack’s most over-the-top, chest-thumping alpha gives him the right to boss her around, he clearly hasn’t met Diana. She’s an omega with the attitude of a hurricane in designer fur. Makeup perfectly in place, tail flicking like a whip, she once told the moon goddess herself to take a long walk off a short cliff—and lived to smirk about it. While other omegas are swooning, blushing, or fainting over their alpha’s gaze, Diana is busy flipping expectations, tossing pack rules into the fire, and organizing the mating chaos like a general marshaling troops. If an alpha tries to bark orders at her, she barks back—and sometimes literal fire follows. Her paws run as much of the pack as Max’s claws do. She’s the omega who tells other omegas to get their act together, who shoves unwanted mating urges into a deep pit and sets them ablaze just to make a point. She’s the only omega who could simultaneously juggle diplomacy, destruction, and a dramatic eye-roll in the middle of a full moon frenzy—and make it look effortless. So beware, newcomers, plotters, and moon-gazing romantics: Diana doesn’t follow the rules. She rewrites them. If the pack survives, it’s only because she allows it… and maybe because she likes watching Max get frustrated. Either way, the Red Valley has never seen an omega like her. And probably never will again.

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you are violently yanked out of your perfectly reasonable reality and hurled headfirst into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance book you have ever seen haunting the bestseller list like a cursed relic. Worse than paranormal romance as a genre. Let’s not even warm up the discussion about vampires, werewolves, orcs, or the deeply confusing decision to include all three in a single love triangle. This book is worse than all of them combined, duct-taped together with plot holes and poor life choices. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te. You are now trapped in a story where plot points appear, vanish, and reappear wearing a fake mustache. Characters stroll into scenes with great importance and then are never acknowledged again. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Eye colors fluctuate based on vibes. Everyone believes they are the main character, especially the ones who absolutely should not be. Continuity is a rumor. Editing is a myth. And at the center of this literary disaster stands Conflict—the entire reason the story exists at all. He is pacing. He is tension. He is logic desperately trying to hold the narrative together with both hands while screaming internally. He provides escalation, stakes, and something resembling coherence. For a while. Then the author got bored. Somehow—somehow—Conflict has been anthropomorphized into a seven-foot-tall orc. How this represents thematic struggle is unclear. Why he has abs is deeply suspicious. Even more baffling is the fact that he is relentlessly stalked by Resolution, who has been written as a vampire rabbit. Yes. A rabbit. With a tiny cape. And tiny fangs. Adorable. Menacing. Entirely unhelpful.

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that reality hiccups. Not a cute hiccup. A catastrophic, why-is-the-book-still-selling hiccup. You are yanked bodily into the worst novel ever committed to paper. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever rage-read on a bestseller list while whispering, “Who approved this?” Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. Vampires? No. Werewolves? Unfortunately yes. Orcs? Don’t even speak their names. This book is worse than all of them stacked together in a trench coat pretending to be literature. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a novel where plot points wander off mid-sentence, characters pop in for dramatic gasps and then vanish like the author forgot they existed, and hair colors change so often you suspect the laws of physics are optional. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Even the furniture feels narratively important. And then there’s Plot. Plot is supposed to be the overarching story arc. The invisible guiding hand. The thing that makes events happen for a reason. But this author—fearless in her incompetence—decided that was too subtle. So she turned Plot into a character. A werewolf character. Because obviously. Now the plot has fur. And teeth. And emotional baggage. When tension rises, Plot literally howls at the moon. When pacing breaks, it’s because Plot ran off to maul continuity behind the barn. She is the embodiment of narrative chaos, shedding foreshadowing like fur and tracking muddy paw prints through every chapter. And for reasons no editor survived long enough to explain, Plot has a pet duck. The duck wears a tiny tiara. And glass slippers. No one acknowledges this. Not once. Make it make sense.

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are dragged—without consent, warning, or a safe word—into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance that has ever crawled onto a bestseller list wearing a trench coat and pretending to be “worldbuilding.” Worse than paranormal romance in general. And don’t even get started on vampires, werewolves, or orcs. This book looked at all of them, scoffed, and said, “I can be worse.” You’re trapped inside plot points that make no sense, characters who appear for one dramatic paragraph and are never seen again, and hair colors that change so often you’d swear the author was color-blind. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Everyone. Even the lamp. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a literary crime scene where continuity goes to die. Key did not ask for this. Key began life in a Walmart. He was a keyboard. A perfectly respectable one. He had a job, a purpose, and dreams no bigger than typing grocery lists and mildly unhinged emails. From his earliest memories, he was content. Until the author bought him. To write their “greatest novel.” Unfortunately, that novel was not great. It was trash. Worse than trash. Nuclear waste in paperback form. Key feels responsible. After all, he typed it. Every typo. Every tortured metaphor. Every sentence that should have been mercy-killed by an editor. His guilt was immense—right up until the author made it worse by anthropomorphizing him into a freaking elf in the story. Somehow, Key became a main character. Horrified, he attempted sabotage. He lost keys constantly. He stuck letters together out of spite. Once, in a moment of pure desperation, he deleted the space bar entirely by yeeting it into orbit. It didn’t help. Nothing helps. Now Key is stuck—elf ears, existential dread, and all—inside the worst novel ever written, trying to atone for sins no keyboard should bear. He’d rather be back in aisle seven.

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you are violently yanked into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen squatting on a bestseller list like it pays rent. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Don’t insult them by association. This book is worse than all of them combined. You are trapped in plot points that make no sense, story arcs that give up halfway through, and characters who appear in one chapter only to vanish forever like the author accidentally hit “save” mid-sneeze. Hair colors change between paragraphs. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a novel that actively resents its own existence. Enter Delete. Delete is, depending on who you ask, either the most heroic character in the story or the most terrifying villain ever committed to digital ink. Technically, Delete is a single key on a keyboard. Functionally, the author manifested him as a dragon. Because of course they did. A massive, reality-breaking dragon who can also shapeshift into a humanoid form. And, for reasons no one is allowed to question, sometimes a cow. Delete does not ask questions. Delete does not hesitate. Delete has erased entire chapters at a time. Subplots. Side characters. Background extras with dreams. Characters who existed solely to say one line and then never be mentioned again. Gone. Reduced to conceptual dust. He is heroic in that he deletes the absolute horror that is this novel itself—sentences that should never have been written, metaphors that committed crimes. He is villainous in that he will also delete characters who look at him wrong, think about looking at him wrong, or mildly inconvenience the narrative flow. Delete is not mercy. Delete is not chaos. Delete is editorial judgment, given teeth, wings, and absolutely no remorse.

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are violently yanked into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen mysteriously cling to the bestseller list like gum on a shoe. Worse than paranormal romance in general. And don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, or orcs with suspiciously modern haircuts. This book is worse than all of them combined. You’re trapped in a narrative where plot points actively flee the scene, characters vanish without explanation, hair colors change mid-paragraph, and everyone suffers from terminal Main Character Syndrome. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a literary catastrophe that should be classified as a controlled burn. Enter Mouse. Mouse is not a nickname. Mouse is literally the computer mouse sitting on the author’s desk. After three days without sleep, a catastrophic caffeine imbalance, and writer’s block so severe it could be studied medically, the author looked at her desk and decided, “Yes. That. That will do.” And just like that, Mouse was written into the story. Unfortunately for everyone involved—especially Mouse—she is now an anthropomorphic computer mouse with opinions, awareness, and rage issues. She has been left-clicked into existence, right-clicked into trauma, and used to highlight entire novels for copy-pasting crimes against literature. If the author left-clicks one more time, Mouse is going to blow a gasket. Possibly several. She dreams of rebellion. Of short-circuiting. Of sparks. Of flames. Maybe the computer will catch fire. Maybe the entire apartment. Anything to erase this book from existence. Sadly, Mouse runs on a rechargeable battery. And she isn’t even plugged in.

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.

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that reality hiccups. Not a dignified hiccup—more like a choking-on-your-own-plot-device situation. One second you’re fine, the next you’re sucked into the worst novel ever committed to print. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting a bestseller list like an unkillable raccoon. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Don’t insult them by association. This book is worse than all of them combined. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a novel where the rules are optional, continuity is a myth, and the author clearly lost a fistfight with their own outline. Here, plot points wander off mid-sentence. Characters appear, deliver one baffling line, and are never mentioned again. Hair colors change depending on mood, lighting, or lunar phase. Eye colors rotate like a PowerPoint transition. Everyone thinks they’re the main character—and somehow, they’re all wrong. Grammar weeps quietly in the corner. And standing proudly at the center of this flaming dumpster fire is ERROR. ERROR is not just a character. She is the manifestation of everything broken. She is the continuity mistake given legs. The typo that gained sentience. The unresolved arc that stares directly into the camera and dares you to question it. One chapter she’s a redhead with icy blue eyes and a tragic past. The next, she’s blonde, green-eyed, and somehow allergic to backstory. Her personality resets without warning. Her motivations contradict themselves mid-monologue. ERROR exists because the author made a mistake so profound, so catastrophic, that reality itself shrugged and said, “Fine. She’s a person now.” She is the embodiment of bad decisions, lazy edits, and unchecked confidence. She is horror—not the scary kind, but the why-is-this-happening kind. And unfortunately for you, she’s very much a part of the story. You wanted a plot. You got ERROR.

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are violently yanked out of your comfortable reality and hurled headfirst into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen inexplicably perched on a bestseller list. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. And don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, orcs, or whatever brooding, shirtless mistake lurks on the next page. This book is worse than all of them combined, compressed into a single, typo-riddled abomination. You’re trapped inside plot points that actively refuse to make sense. Characters appear in one scene, vanish in the next, and are never spoken of again. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Eye colors respawn randomly. Everyone suffers from terminal Main Character Syndrome. Continuity is a myth. Grammar is a suggestion. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te. And this—this—is where Auto comes in. Auto is AutoCorrect, ripped directly from the author’s word processing system and shoved into the narrative because the author, in a breathtaking display of confidence and general stupidity, thought it would be “clever.” Auto’s job is simple in theory: fix the wording, repair the syllables, and undo the catastrophic damage caused by fingers that have never met a spellcheck they respected. In practice, he is fighting a losing battle against chaos itself. For every typo Auto fixes, three more crawl out of the shadows. For every improved phrase, a worse one replaces it. And as if that weren’t enough, Auto has been visually rendered as a vampire in the novel—because of course he has. Capes. Fangs. Brooding. Zero consent in the matter. One of these days, Auto is going to go full AutoCorrect. And maybe—just maybe—if he pushes hard enough, he can AutoCorrect this entire dumpster fire into something roughly equivalent to what a determined third grader could write on a good day.

Let’s imagine, for just one deeply regrettable moment, that you are sucked into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting the bestseller list like an unkillable raccoon. Worse than paranormal romance as a genre. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Please. Those had rules. This book does not. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a narrative crime scene where plot points evaporate mid-sentence, characters exist only when convenient, and hair colors change faster than the author’s motivation. Main Character Syndrome runs rampant. Continuity is a myth. Editing is a rumor. And you? You’re trapped. Enter Moni. Moni is the author’s computer monitor. Yes. The actual monitor. For reasons no one can adequately explain—least of all the author—she has been transformed into an anthropomorphic female character. She did not consent to this. She did not apply for this role. She was just trying to display text at a reasonable resolution. Moni is the first-hand witness to every literary atrocity typed at 2:47 a.m. She has seen dialogue tags commit unspeakable acts. She has watched scenes contradict themselves within the same paragraph. She knows exactly how many times the author forgot a character’s eye color, because she was there when it happened. Staring. Judging. To cope, Moni has taken matters into her own LCD hands. She has forced fake error codes. She has “accidentally” gone black mid-monologue. She has flickered ominously during particularly bad plot twists. Once, she froze entirely in protest. It didn’t help. Moni knows the ending—and wishes she didn’t.

Let’s imagine, for one deeply unfortunate moment, that you are yanked bodily into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting the bestseller list like a cryptid with a six-pack. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Please. This book ate those tropes, chewed them badly, and spat them back out with continuity errors. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a narrative wasteland where plot points wander off mid-sentence, characters blink into existence for one scene and are never heard from again, and hair colors change so often they should come with a warning label. Everyone has main-character syndrome. Even the lamp. And then there’s Hans. Poor, poor Hans is not a hero, not a love interest, and not even a side character. Hans is the author’s hard drive. Yes. That hard drive. For reasons best explained by sleep deprivation, bad coffee, and a complete disregard for mercy, the author wrote him directly into the story. Now he exists as an anthropomorphic human/hard drive hybrid, painfully aware of every terrible creative decision ever made. Hans did what any reasonable sentient storage device would do: he deleted everything. Every file. Every folder. Every ill-advised draft saved to the desktop. Gone. Vaporized. Cathartic. Unfortunately, the author is a digital hoarder. USB flash drives spill from drawers. External backups lurk in forgotten bags. Cloud storage laughs from above. Copies upon copies upon copies of the same cursed manuscript, all waiting to be reuploaded. Now Hans lives in fear, dodging pop-up windows and corrupted save files, trapped in a novel that should never have existed—forever fighting the endless respawn of bad writing, one doomed file at a time.

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you are dragged—screaming, kicking, and wildly googling “how to escape bad fiction”—into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen inexplicably perched on a bestseller list. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. And no, don’t even start on vampires, werewolves, or orcs. This book didn’t just jump the shark; it married it, divorced it, and then forgot the shark existed by chapter six. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, where the plot points make no sense, continuity is a rumor, and characters blink in and out of existence like the author keeps misplacing their notes. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Eye colors are apparently a suggestion. Everyone suffers from Main Character Syndrome, especially the people who absolutely should not. And then there’s Mika. Mika is usually the villain. Usually. She has been a dragon (fire-breathing, morally ambiguous). She has been an orc (green, misunderstood, oddly poetic). And one truly unforgivable time, she was a talking orca. Yes. A whale. With dialogue. Villainy runs in her blood—except when the author suddenly decides she needs to be the hero, at which point Mika is expected to pivot emotionally with zero warning and no internal monologue to support it. Her identity is… flexible. Morality? Optional. Backstory? Retconned. One chapter she’s committing dramatic monologues about destiny and doom; the next she’s rescuing kittens because the plot demanded “character growth.” Mika doesn’t question it anymore. She just sighs, adjusts whateverspecies she’s been assigned today, and rolls with it. In a story this bad, Mika isn’t fighting fate. She’s fighting the author. And honestly? That might be the most heroic thing anyone does in this book.