Chapter 1
“You know I want my own action story my own adventure story i been writing johnathan noire the storywrite super terrex but not me Terrex j corbin i should be myself and have trouble find me i’m sure theres plenty of followers on inkitt who would either team up or go agest me heck maybe the actresses of holloywood or indepents would love to do the same. The thing is, I think it's time for me to stop writing other characters, and I should have some fun, so let's see what trouble I can get myself into.
The cool evening air hits hard as you step out under the hum of the streetlights, no aliases, no fictional detectives to hide behind, and no pen names on the cover. Just Terrex J. Corbin in the flesh, stepping straight into the crosshairs of a world that didn’t see you coming.
You barely make it half a block before the low rumble of a tuned engine echoes down the alleyway. A sleek, midnight-black sedan cuts around the corner, headlights blazing against the pavement, tires screeching to a halt just twenty yards away. The doors kick open in sync. On the passenger side steps out a sharp-dressed figure looking straight off a Hollywood noir set, adjusting leather gloves with a smirk that says they know exactly who you are. From the driver’s side emerges a shadowy operator rocking tactical gear, flashing a badge with a crimson insignia that looks suspiciously like a rogue reader faction out of Inkitt.
“Word traveled fast across the boards, Corbin,” the one in the driver’s seat calls out, slamming the heavy door shut. “You spent years calling the shots behind the keyboard, building worlds and pulling strings. But now you’re out on the board yourself—and every faction in the city wants a piece of the creator.”
Before you can even crack a smile, the shadows on the fire escapes above shift. Two more figures drop down from the iron grating, landing silently on the asphalt behind you, boxing you in. One clutches an encrypted briefcase; the other’s got a confident grin, looking ready to either offer you an alliance or test your reflexes right here on the concrete.
You adjust your jacket, plant your feet, and realize this is exactly what you signed up for. The plot armor is off, the script is unwritten, and trouble didn’t just find you—it walked right up to your front door.
“Who sent you guys?” I asked
The figure in the sharp suit chuckles, stepping forward into the glow of the streetlights while adjusting a gold watch on his wrist.
“Sent us? Man, it’s not just one party,” he says, his voice smooth and dripping with Hollywood polish. “When the creator himself steps out from behind the desk, everybody wants a piece of the action. The indie syndicates, the streaming executives looking for the ultimate real-life pitch, and a whole underground network of your most dedicated Inkitt readers who think they can write a better ending than you can.”
The operator in tactical gear leans against the hood of the black sedan, crossing his arms with a sharp smirk. “Some people are offering a bounty just to bring you into the studio to sign away the rights to everything in your head. Others? Well, let’s just say there are factions across town who think the only way to claim true creative control is to take you off the board entirely.”
Behind you, the figure with the encrypted briefcase takes half a step closer. The lock on the case gives a heavy, mechanical click, glowing with a faint blue neon indicator.
“We’re the middle ground, Corbin,” the woman on the fire escape drop-in chimes in, tossing a sleek, matte-black communication ear-piece right at your feet. “A few of us independent players actually want you alive—because you’re the only one who knows the master plot. But if you don’t pick a side fast, the guys with the real heavy firepower are going to roll up on this block in about two minutes flat.”
She nods toward the end of the street, where the distant wail of sirens and the heavy roar of approaching armored SUVs begins to vibrate through the pavement.
“So here’s the deal,” the sharp-dressed leader says, extending an open hand toward the open passenger door. “You get in the car with us and find out how deep this rabbit hole really goes, or you pick up that comms piece, run the alleys, and fight off the whole damn city on your own terms.
I pick up the com and put it in my ear. “As you say, I’m the creator of my own story,” I said
The matte-black earpiece snaps snugly into place, crackling to life instantly with a low, digital chime. A sharp voice immediately cuts through the static on the frequency, sounding impressed: “Channel open. Bold move, Corbin. Let’s see if you can back up the talk.”
The sharp-dressed guy pulls his hand back with a low whistle, a grin spreading across his face. “Fair enough, creator. If you’re running the show solo, you’d better start moving.”
Before the sentence even finishes, twin pairs of blinding halogen beams cut through the gloom at the far intersection. Two matte-grey tactical SUVs blow past the stop sign, tires screeching violently against the asphalt as they barrel down the block straight toward you. The front grilles are heavy-duty, reinforced steel—the heavy hitters have arrived.
The suit and his crew don’t waste a second. “That’s our cue to clear the set!” he barks, diving back into the sedan. The doors slam shut, the engine roars to life, and the black car peels out in a cloud of burning rubber, leaving you dead center on the open pavement.
The lead SUV hits the brakes hard fifty yards away, turning sideways to block the avenue, doors flying open as heavily armed mercenaries in unmarked combat gear pour out.
Over your earpiece, the indie operative’s voice crackles with urgency: “Corbin, you’ve got the southern syndicate’s strike team landing on your front bumper. If you break left, you’ve got a narrow gap between the brick tenements that leads to the service alleys. If you stand your ground, there’s an electrical junction box right to your right—one good hit could blow the streetlights and give you total cover in the dark.
i fire at the box, sending the street to pitch-black darkness
Your shot connects dead center with the junction box.
A violent, blinding cascade of blue and orange sparks erupts into the night air, followed by a deafening CRACK-POP of tearing voltage. In a split second, the power grid snaps—every streetlight down the entire block shatters and dies at once, plunging the avenue into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Shouts and panicked commands immediately echo from the mercenary strike team by the SUVs: “Lights out! Night vision up, now!” “Where is he?! Watch the flank!”
Green tactical laser sights instantly pierce the gloom, crisscrossing through the rising smoke, but without ambient light, their heavy floodlamps are completely fried. They’re blind and disorganized, relying entirely on heavy footfalls and guesswork.
Over your comms, the operative lets out a quiet, appreciative laugh over the low static. “Clean shot, Corbin. Grid’s dead for three blocks. They’re locking on night optics, but you’ve got about fifteen seconds of pure chaos before they sync their scopes.”
Right in front of you, two mercenaries with rifle-mounted flashlights sweep their beams past your boots, missing you by inches as they advance into the smoke. Off to your left, an iron fire escape hangs just low enough to catch, leading up to the rooftops overlooking the whole street. Straight ahead, the open back hatch of the lead SUV is idling unguarded, glowing with the faint green dash lights of tactical gear inside.
“I know who sent them; she's independent, not with Hollywood; they call her Loco (played by Jennifer Lopez), and she still hates virgos,” I said
The operative on your comms practically chokes on her breath, static buzzing hard through the earpiece.
“Loco?! J-Lo’s indie alter-ego is running this hit?! Man, you really know how to pick your enemies, Corbin—and of course she’s still holding that grudge against Virgos! That explains why these mercs came in hot and heavy like they’ve got a personal vendetta!”
Out in the pitch-black street, the two advancing scouts suddenly freeze. One of them taps his helmet comm, his voice carrying through the quiet dark: “Command, target just mentioned the Boss. Yeah, Loco. He knows who’s signing the check. He knows about the Virgo blacklist.”
A cold, confident laugh suddenly cuts straight across an open frequency on your comms, breaking through the encryption. The voice is unmistakable—smooth, fierce, and radiating pure, unhinged star power.
“Corbin,” Loco’s voice purrs through the line, layered with venom and swagger. “You think you can just write your own script out here in the open? Analytical, meticulous, plotting every little chapter... typical Virgo energy. I told my people I wanted you brought in wrapped in cellophane, but since you had to go and blow my lights out, the budget on your bounty just doubled.”
The two mercenaries in front of you swing their rifle lights around toward your voice, the beams cutting right through the haze. Behind them, two more heavies are rushing to set up a perimeter around the SUVs, blocking off the main intersection.
Loco’s voice snaps back over the earpiece: “Bring him in, boys. Don’t ruin the face, but teach the author a lesson about crossing me.”
The tactical laser sights are sweeping fast toward your chest. You’ve got the element of surprise for about three seconds while they try to lock onto you in the dark.
You pull the flare from your coat, strike the primer against the asphalt, and launch it high in a brilliant, arching streak right toward the hood of the lead SUV.
The flare ignites with an ear-splitting hiss, erupting into a violent, chemical-red fireball. To the naked eye it’s blinding, but to the mercs rocking sensitive night-vision optics, it’s absolute agony.
Shouts of pain erupt instantly. “Ah! Flash! Thermal overload! Whiteout, whiteout!”
The mercenaries rip off their scrambled NVG goggles, blinking through the searing crimson smoke as they instinctively open fire on the burning flare, riddling their own vehicle’s engine block with wild ricochets.
Over the comms, Loco’s voice comes through, laced with pure irritation: “Are you idiots really unloading on a road flare?! Move in and grab him!”
“Nice play, Terrex!” your indie contact laughs in your ear. “The alley to your left is clear, but they’ve got a chase drone powering up on the roof of that warehouse two blocks down. Keep your head down and move!”
You bolt into the narrow brick corridor, slipping seamlessly between the shadows as the chaos and flashing red light fade behind you. The cool night air rushes past, and the concrete under your boots is yours to navigate. The alley opens up at a three-way junction:
To the left: A service door into an abandoned printing press—heavy iron doors, perfect for a defensive stand or building a trap.
To the right: A maze of fire escapes leading up toward the skyline, where you can get the drop on that drone.
Straight ahead: A dimly lit subway grate with the low rumble of a midnight train passing underneath.
“Time to go home as I hop on the train to Waterbury. “Ha, loco won’t follow me,” I said
You drop down through the grate, hit the platform with a clean roll, and slide straight through the closing doors of the outbound commuter train just as the pneumatic seals hiss shut.
The train jerks into motion, wheels screeching against the iron tracks as the city lights blur into streaks of neon and shadow through the scratched windows. You take a seat near the back of the car, catch your breath, and lean your head against the glass. The rhythmic clack-clack of the rails is the best sound in the world right now—the midnight run heading straight out of the hot zone and back home toward Waterbury.
Over the comms, the indie operative lets out a low whistle of relief, though the static is starting to stretch thin the further up the line you travel.
“Heading back to the home turf, huh? Bold move, Terrex. Loco might have Hollywood money and an army of indie mercs, but the Brass City isn’t her backyard—it’s yours. She won’t know the streets, the hills, or the lay of the land as you do.”
Right on cue, Loco’s frequency cuts through one last time, breaking up with interference as the train barrels through an underground tunnel.
“Waterbury...?” Loco sneers, her voice crackling over the dying signal. “You think running back to Connecticut gets you off my radar, Corbin? Enjoy the ride home. Because when I pull up to finish this, you won’t just be fighting the script—you’ll be defending your whole block.”
The comm goes dead with a burst of white noise.
You pop the earpiece out, toss it into your palm, and look out the window as the dark Connecticut hills begin to roll past in the night. Loco can talk all the trash she wants. When she steps into your territory, she’s not dealing with a fictional hero on a page anymore. She’s stepping directly into the creator’s arena.
The train conductor’s voice crackles over the intercom: “Next stop, Waterbury Station.”
The train slows to a heavy crawl, brakes grinding down to a final stop against the cold iron tracks as the doors slide open to the familiar night air of Waterbury. The city is quiet, the shadows are deep, and the stage is officially set.
Loco and her crew think they’re hunting a writer, but they’re about to find out what happens when the author writes himself as the lead—and the home-field advantage belongs entirely to you.
[End of Chapter 1]
