Key

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.