Bad Review: Hannah Dies

By Aaron Abilene

A morbidly obese woman who is miserable and unable to even leave her trailer home starts causing problems for people on the internet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Syphon Creative
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224699926

Book preview

Bad Review: Hannah Dies

Aaron Abilene

Published by Syphon Creative, 2024.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

BAD REVIEW: HANNAH DIES

First edition. March 19, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Aaron Abilene.

ISBN: 979-8224699926

Written by Aaron Abilene.

Also by Aaron Abilene

505

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Before The Dead Awake (Coming Soon)

Carnival Game

Full Moon Howl

Donovan

Shades of Z

Deadeye

Deadeye & Friends

Cowboys Vs Aliens

Ferris

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Afterlife in Love (Coming Soon)

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The Lost Island

The Lost Island 2

The Lost Island 3

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Prototype

The Compound

Slacker

Slacker 2

Slacker: Dead Man Walkin'

Texas

A Vampire in Texas

Thomas

Quarantine

Contagion

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Pathogen

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Decontaminated (Coming Soon)

Virus

Raising Hell

Zombie Bride

Zombie Bride

Zombie Bride 2

Zombie Bride 3

Standalone

The Victims of Pinocchio

A Christmas Nightmare

Pain

Fat Jesus

A Zombie's Revenge

505

The Headhunter

Crash

Tranq

The Island

Dog

The Quiet Man

Joe Superhero

Feral

Good Guys

Devil Child of Texas

Romeo and Juliet and Zombies

The Gamer

Becoming Alpha

Dead West

Small Town Blues

Shades of Z: Redux

The Gift of Death

Killer Claus

Skarred

Home Sweet Home

Alligator Allan

10 Days

Army of The Dumbest Dead

Kid

The Cult of Stupid

9 Time Felon

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Bad Review: Hannah Dies

Me Again

Maurice and Me

Breaking Wind

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Lightning Rider : Better Days (Coming Soon)

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Sparkles The Vampire Clown (Coming Soon)

From The Future, Stuck in The Past (Coming Soon)

Honest John (Coming Soon)

She's Psycho (Coming Soon)

Vicious Cycle (Coming Soon)

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Hunting Sarah (Coming Soon)

Random Acts of Stupidity (Coming Soon)

Born Killer (Coming Soon)

The Abducted (Coming Soon)

Broken Man (Coming Soon)

Graham Hiney (Coming Soon)

Paper Soldiers (Coming Soon)

Zartan (Coming Soon)

The Firsts in Life (Coming Soon)

Giant Baby (Coming Soon)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Aaron Abilene

Bad Review: Hannah Dies

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Also By Aaron Abilene

Bad Review: Hannah Dies

Written by Aaron Abilene

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In the digital coliseum where thumbs-up are the swords and emojis the roaring crowd, social media reigned supreme. It was the grand puppeteer of public opinion, a relentless beast that fed on likes, shares, and viral content. The world danced to its algorithmic tune, a symphony composed of hashtags and filtered snapshots, while reality warbled on, out of sync and increasingly irrelevant.

Ugh, another picture-perfect brunch? Hannah snorted as she scrolled past an influencer's post with vehement disdain. She lounged in her fortress of solitude—a dimly lit room scented with the sweet fusion of fast food and apathy. Her throne, a creaking office chair, bore the brunt of her considerable girth; it groaned like a beast under siege each time she shifted to find a less uncomfortable niche in its worn upholstery.

Twenty thousand likes for avocado on toast? she muttered, her thick fingers smudging the screen of her tablet with greasy enthusiasm. The world's gone mad.

Hannah's physical presence was as undeniable as her digital footprint was stealthy. The walls of her room curved around her like a cocoon, almost as if they were trying to escape her expansive figure. Her hair, a lusterless brown mop, lay matted against her puffy cheeks, and her sweatshirt—stretched over her morbidly obese frame—sported a faded cat meme that had seen better days.

Let's see how perfect your life is when I'm done with you, she said with a wicked cackle, tapping out a comment with zealous rapidity.

Can't even spread the avocado right. I've seen more artistry from a drunk raccoon with finger paints.

She hit 'post' and threw her head back, letting out a belly laugh that bounced off the walls and mingled with the hum of her computer.

Genius, Hannah. Pure genius, she congratulated herself, basking in the glow of her own dark humor. As likes and angry reactions began to accumulate beneath her comment, a warm rush of satisfaction filled her. This was her stage, her realm where she commanded attention, wielding her words like daggers dipped in venomous wit.

Next victim, Hannah declared, swiping with purpose until she landed on the page of a budding novelist who had dared to dream publicly.

World building? More like world boring, she quipped aloud as she crafted a particularly scathing review of a book she'd never read. It wasn't about the content; it was about the conquest, about breaking spirits with the tap-tap-tap of her unmanicured nails.

Send them into literary oblivion, she muttered, chuckling as she imagined the author's face contorting in despair upon reading her ruthless critique. No room for mediocrity on my watch.

Hannah's empire was built on the anonymity that the internet afforded her. Shielded behind her screen, she was invincible, untouchable—a queen in a kingdom of her own making, feasting on the insecurities of those who exposed their souls to the unforgiving void of cyberspace.

Pathetic, she breathed out with contempt, not realizing the irony that dripped from her lips. She took another swig of her soda, the fizzling sound echoing like a chorus of tiny cheers from her adoring, nonexistent fans.

Long live the queen, she whispered, her eyes never leaving the hypnotic scroll of her feed. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, orchestrating chaos with every stroke, blissfully unaware of the discordant melody she composed in the lives of others.

More, more, more, Hannah urged herself on, devouring the digital drama she concocted with a ravenous hunger that matched her appetite for the sugary treats piled beside her.

As the night wore on, the blue light from her devices cast an eerie pallor on her face—a spectral mask that flickered with each new notification, each new skirmish she instigated. But in the quiet moments, when the screen dimmed and the world outside her window began to stir, the queen of vitriol sat alone, her kingdom nothing more than castles built of pixels and spite.

Hannah's apartment was a mausoleum of modern loneliness, the walls lined with shelves that groaned under the weight of fast food containers and diet soda cans—the latter a concession to health she found bitterly amusing. The carpet was a tapestry of crumbs, each one a relic of dinners eaten in the glow of her computer screen. It was here, in this reclusive cocoon, that Hannah wove her web of malice.

Brilliant plot twist, my ample behind! Hannah cackled, her fingers pounding the keys with the ferocity of a butcher hacking away at meat. She had just finished reading the latest work by an author whose popularity was as inexplicable to her as quantum physics. Let's carve you up for the literary hack you are.

And carve she did. Her comments were a surgeon's knife, dissecting the author's metaphors and characters with a precision that was almost artistic—if art were measured by the degree to which it eviscerated its subject.

Your protagonist is as deep as a kiddie pool, she typed, the words appearing on the forum with the finality of an epitaph.

Ha! And your narrative arc flatlines more than your jokes! she continued, her laughter bouncing off the lonely confines of her apartment.

It wasn't just authors who felt the sting of her digital lash; anyone who dared to share their creativity online was fair game. With each click and taunt, she sent out tendrils of toxicity that entangled unsuspecting victims in her bitter harvest.

Look at this one, she muttered to herself, stumbling across a new writer who had the audacity to share their first short story. Oh honey, the only thing shorter than your story is the list of people who'll ever care about it.

Her chuckle was a hollow echo, the solitary sound of amusement in a void where friendship or kindness might have dwelled. She never paused to consider the faces behind the usernames, the hearts that beat anxiously as they read her scathing critiques. They were phantoms to her, ephemeral and inconsequential as the fading light from a dying star.

Publishing this drivel should be a crime, Hannah proclaimed, as if addressing a court of her peers—imaginary jurists who nodded along with her every decree. I sentence you to obscurity!

But there were no cheers, no applause. Just the soft hum of her refrigerator, indifferent to her conquests. Her victories were as fleeting as the pixels that displayed them, triumphs in a battle where the spoils were sour grapes and the satisfaction turned quickly to ash in her mouth.

More, more, more, she incanted, scrolling through profiles and posts like a sorceress summoning spirits from the abyss. Each swipe brought new prey, fresh blood to sate her hunger for relevance in a world that had forgotten her name—if it had ever known it at all.

Who else wants a piece of the queen? she sneered, her eyes gleaming with a manic light. Yet, for all her bravado, Hannah couldn't shake the cold claw of solitude that tightened around her chest—a constant reminder that her throne was a recliner, her scepter a mouse, and her subjects nothing but shadows flickering across a screen.

In a world where tweets could topple titans and a post held more power than a president, Hannah wielded her keyboard like a battle-axe, hacking away at the reputation of her latest victim.

Another bestseller? she cackled, her fingers drumming on the greasy keys. Not on my watch, you hack! The glow from her triple monitors bathed her in an eerie light, illuminating the rolls that cascaded down her neck as she leaned forward in anticipation.

Let's see, she muttered, her voice barely rising above the hum of the computer fan. Plot thinner than my hairline... characters flatter than my soda... Oh, this is going to be fun. Her eyes narrowed as she attacked, typing furiously.

Dear Mr. 'I've-never-met-a-cliché-I-didn't-like', she typed with venomous glee. Your book was the perfect cure for insomnia. I slept like a baby, right until the part where I didn't because it was so atrociously bad. She snorted at her own wit, hitting 'Enter' with a decisive stroke.

The author on the receiving end, a mild-mannered novelist with a penchant for tweed jackets and pipe tobacco, felt his phone buzz with the notification—a malicious missive that made his heart sink. His hands trembled as he read the comment, each word a dagger twisting in his already fragile confidence.

Your mother must be so proud, Hannah continued, her chuckles bouncing off the empty pizza boxes that surrounded her like a fortress. To think, all those years nurturing talent, only to find out her offspring has the creative depth of a rain puddle.

She imagined the novelist, this poor soul who dared to dream in prose, sitting with his head in his hands, wondering how his magnum opus had become cannon fodder for the likes of her. It was too delicious, the thought of him rewriting chapters, second-guessing every line because of her scathing words.

Pathetic, she whispered to herself, reveling in the anonymity that cloaked her like a superhero's cape. No one knew she was Hannah the Horrible, the feared critic of the literary world. Online, she was just @BookSlayer88, a faceless avatar with a following of fellow trolls who hung on her every vitriolic syllable.

Would you like some cheese with that whine? she taunted the air, knowing her barbs would leave no visible scars, but the internal wounds...oh, they'd fester.

With a flick of her wrist, Hannah sent another salvo into the digital ether, her heart racing with a perverse joy. There was a knock at her door, likely the delivery boy with her nightly feast of fried chicken and regret. She ignored it, lost in the power rush of her online onslaught. Behind the safety of her screen, she was untouchable, untraceable—her cruelty boundless and her appetite for destruction insatiable.

Let them eat cake, she sneered, the glow of the monitors reflecting in her glasses. Or in her case, let them choke on her words while she feasted on their despair. It was the dark, comedic symphony of her life, and Hannah was the maestro, conducting each note of misery with an expert hand.

Hannah’s lair, a dimly lit room crammed with the detritus of snack wrappers and soda cans, was aglow with several monitors that cast her shadow against the wall—a twisted puppeteer pulling the strings of her victims' psyches. On one screen, an open document listed her conquered prey: authors who had dared to spill their hearts into the world.

J.M. Peterson, she read aloud, her voice dripping with disdain. Your 'epic fantasy' was about as epic as my last diet. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, typing out a review that likened J.M.'s magnum opus to a manual for watching paint dry. She relished recounting how Peterson's book tour had been canceled after her scathing words hit the internet. Sales plummeted. The author retreated from public life, a broken soul whimpering in the dark corners of obscurity.

Next up, Linda Hartley, Hannah announced to no one, smirking at the memory of the self-help guru who claimed to uplift spirits. With a few well-placed digs about Linda's recycled platitudes and lackluster writing, Hannah had watched—no, ensured—that the only thing lifting was her own perverse sense of satisfaction. She chuckled at the thought of Linda now needing her own advice to soldier through the barrage of returned books and empty seminar seats.

Ah, and who could forget Robert D. Stein? She rolled her eyes theatrically. The so-called master of horror. More like master of snore-ror! A tap-tap-tap on the keys, and she dispatched another review into the void. She'd nearly cackled when Stein's publisher dropped him faster than a hot potato, citing 'unexpected shifts in reader sentiment.'

Unleash the hounds! she bellowed to herself, hitting the 'Post Comment' button with gusto. Her laughter echoed off the walls as she envisioned her words sinking their teeth into the authors' egos.

God, I'm good, she mused, snatching a half-eaten bag of cheese puffs from beside her keyboard. She stuffed a handful into her mouth, crumbs tumbling down her shirt, lost in the folds of her skin. Crunching loudly, she reveled in the symphony of chaos she orchestrated from her command center.

Take that, literary elite! Your degrees mean nothing here! Hannah declared, the orange powder dusting her fingers like badges of honor. She imagined them, these writers with their lofty dreams, deflated by her onslaught, their aspirations leaking out like air from a punctured balloon.

Who needs friends when I've got enemies to crush? she whispered to herself, savoring the tang of power more delicious than any junk food binge. She felt alive, electric, a storm of one lashing out across the vast digital landscape. With each attack, she grew larger in her mind, a Goliath toppling Davids with keystrokes instead of stones.

Your move, world, Hannah said, reclining in her chair like a queen upon her throne, surrounded by screens that served as windows into the misery of others—a misery she crafted with glee. And as the night crept on, her laughter mingled with the hum of electronics, a dark melody for a comedy only she found amusing.

The pixels of the screen blurred before Gregory's eyes, and he squinted at the latest barrage of vitriol in his notifications. You call this writing? My cat has coughed up better plots! The comment stung, slicing through the thin armor of his self-esteem. He had poured months into that novel, each word a carefully placed brick in the edifice of his story. Now it lay in digital ruins, courtesy of @QueenCriticH.

Greg, you okay? his wife called from the doorway, her brow creasing with concern as she took in his slumped posture.

Fine, he lied, forcing a smile. Just another day in paradise.

Meanwhile, across town, Rachel's hands trembled over her keyboard. Her debut was meant to be her triumph, yet all she could focus on were the relentless jabs stabbing at her inbox like poison-tipped arrows. Your book is so dull I'd rather watch paint dry... in the dark... during a power outage. She should have been celebrating, but instead, she found herself drowning in an ocean of insecurities. Hannah's words were sharks circling ever closer.

Rachel, sweetheart, come to bed, urged a voice from the hallway, soft with sleep and worry.

Can't. The internet needs me, she quipped bitterly, though the laughter didn't quite reach her eyes.

Cut to Hannah, queen of her insulated world, where the only light came from the glow of screens. Her laughter was a solitary sound, echoing off the walls of her cramped apartment. In the real world, she was invisible, just another faceless person whom society had dismissed. But online, oh online, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Ah, the sweet sound of shattered dreams, Hannah mused, her fingers dancing across the keys with malicious grace.

If these authors could see her now, they would find not a menacing titan but a woman swaddled in a stained bathrobe, her hair an untamed nest atop her head. They would see the stack of unpaid bills, the canary yellow eviction notice pinned to the fridge, the loneliness etched deep in her eyes.

Pathetic! she spat at the screen, though whether the insult was meant for her victims or herself, even she couldn't tell.

Got them good today, didn't you, Hannah? she said aloud, addressing the only audience she had—her reflection in the blackened TV screen. It offered no reply, no validation, no comfort. Her chuckle was hollow, the victory as empty as the takeout containers littering the floor around her.

Tomorrow, I'll make them weep, she promised, though the threat carried the weight of routine, not conviction. As she powered down her computer, the room plunged into darkness. The contrast between her online persona and her real-life existence was as stark as the difference between day and night.

Queen of nothing, she whispered into the void, her throne a creaky office chair, her kingdom an empire of solitude. And in that moment, the laughter died in her throat, replaced by the ghost of a sob that she swallowed back down. The joke, it seemed, was on her.

Hannah's fingers danced across the keyboard with a rhythm that was almost musical—if one could call the staccato tapping of keys against the silence of her dimly lit apartment music. Her eyes, bloodshot from hours of fixation on the screen, flickered with an unnatural brightness each time she hit 'enter'. It was like watching a pianist in a manic recital, except Hannah's symphony was composed of snarky comments, biting retorts, and scathing reviews.

Take that, you hack! she cackled as she skewered another author with a particularly venomous critique. Can't handle the truth? Don't write drivel!

For every post she made, she would immediately refresh the page, her breath hitching in anticipation of likes, shares, or better yet—responses. When the inevitable notification ping sounded, it shot a dose of adrenaline straight to her heart, a high no drug could match. She leaned closer, scrutinizing the reactions of her audience, dissecting their words for any sign of defeat.

Ha! Got 'em quaking in their literary boots, she gloated, rubbing her hands together. Her chair groaned under her weight, a creaky chorus to her moments of triumph.

Let's see... what's next? she muttered, scrolling through her feed, her appetite for chaos insatiable. Every click was a gateway to a new battlefield, every comment a grenade lobbed into the trenches of the online world. She left no post unturned, no status update unscathed.

Ah, this will do, she said, spotting a fresh post from a new author celebrating their first published novel. Time for a little welcome party.

Her fingers flew, crafting a scorching reply that juxtaposed their joy with her jaded scorn. She didn't just cross lines; she obliterated them with the force of her wit. The more personal the attack, the louder her internal laughter echoed—the sound of a mind unhinged by its own cleverness.

Your narrative is as flat as your characters' personalities, she typed, chuckling at her own cruelty. And that's saying something.

She hit 'send', and again waited for the digital applause from her faceless followers. They never disappointed. The likes piled up, comments of agreement and encouragement fueling her tirade.

Queen Hannah strikes again, she murmured to herself, a twisted smile playing on her lips. But as the night wore on, the smile waned, the glow of the screen casting long shadows across the room, painting her kingdom in stark relief—a realm of discarded pizza boxes and empty soda cans, a testament to neglect both self-imposed and otherwise.

Who needs 'em anyway? she declared defiantly to the void, but her bravado fell flat, absorbed by the cluttered expanse of her solitary fortress. The isolation gnawed at her, even as she continued her relentless assault on the digital front.

Alone at the top, she reasoned, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue. That's the price of being a queen.

But was it worth it? The question crept into her thoughts, unbidden, a whisper of doubt amid the cacophony of her online existence. Yet she shoved it aside, burying it beneath another layer of venomous posts and spiteful replies.

More, she hissed, her voice a serpent's lilt, her soul craving the validation that only her virtual conquests could provide. They need me. They all need me.

As dawn's early light began to infiltrate the room's darkness, casting a pallid hue over the detritus of Hannah's life, it became clear that the toxic environment she had created was not confined to the realms of cyberspace. It was here, tangible and suffocating, woven into the very fabric of her existence.

Tomorrow, she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of her computer's cooling fan, they'll see just how indispensable I am.

But the screen held no reflection now—no judgment, no pity. Just the endless scroll of a timeline filled with the debris of broken spirits and a woman who reigned over them all, oblivious to the poison she dispensed with every keystroke and the desolation that echoed back at her from the four walls of her court.

Hannah’s laptop glowed like a beacon of malevolence in the dimly lit room, the only source of illumination in her self-made den of disdain. For months, its screen had been a stage for her nightly ritual of character assassination, the keyboard a weapon to launch vitriolic tirades against unsuspecting authors who had dared to disappoint her literary tastes. Her comments were legendary in their cruelty, crafted with a sadist's precision and delivered with the glee of a child pulling the legs off spiders, one by one. Authors trembled at the mere mention of her username, BookBane92 – a pseudonym that had become synonymous with online harassment in their circles.

Another one bites the dust, she muttered, smirking as she recalled her latest victim—a young novelist whose debut work she’d torn apart with such savagery that he had promptly deleted all his social media accounts.

Tonight, however, Hannah had found a new quarry, one that had committed an unforgivable sin in her eyes. The book was The Quixotic Quest of Quentin Quail and the author, Jasper Jezebel, a man who had the audacity to pen what she considered the worst piece of literature since the invention of the printing press. Its cover, featuring a cartoonish quail wearing a fedora, was an affront to her sensibilities, and she could hardly contain her derision.

Quentin Quail? More like Quentin Fail, she scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard she feared they might get stuck that way.

Her fingers danced over the keys as she typed the address of the email she had been crafting for days. It was a masterpiece of mockery, every word a carefully chosen dagger intended to pierce Jasper Jezebel's ego. She imagined him, probably a middle-aged man with delusions of grandeur, sitting in a corduroy armchair surrounded by stacks of his unsold books, weeping into his tweed jacket as he read her scathing critique.

Dear Mr. Jezebel, she began, her lips twitching with involuntary amusement. I recently had the misfortune of reading your so-called novel...

She continued, each sentence dripping with more sarcasm than the last, her heart racing with excitement. Oh, how delicious it would be to see his spirit crumble under the weight of her words!

Your protagonist is as compelling as a cardboard cutout in a rainstorm—limp, soggy, and utterly forgettable, she cackled, hitting the keys with such force that her cat, perched on a nearby shelf, eyed her warily.

Maybe next time, stick to what you're good at—whatever that may be, because it certainly isn't writing! Her laughter echoed through the room, a sound that was equal parts mirth and madness.

Send! she exclaimed triumphantly, jabbing the button like she was detonating a bomb. In many ways, she was—her letter would surely explode upon Jasper Jezebel's world with shrapnel-sharp wit.

With the deed done, she leaned back in her chair, the ghost of a smirk still playing on her lips. Now came the waiting game, the sweet torture of anticipation as she imagined the myriad ways Jasper might respond—if he dared. Would he plead for mercy? Attempt a feeble retort? Or would he simply disappear into the abyss of has-beens and never-weres, another casualty in her relentless war against mediocrity?

Come on, Jasper. Don't keep me waiting, she whispered, her finger hovering over the refresh button of her inbox like a vulture circling its prey.

Hannah's eyes were twin infernos, scorching the paper-thin pages of Jasper Jezebel's latest travesty, Whispers of the Wind. Each word was another lash against the sanctity of literature, each sentence a personal affront. Her lips curled over her teeth in silent fury.

An author? Ha! This man is a butcher of prose, she seethed to the empty room, her voice dripping with venom.

She snatched up her laptop, fingers trembling with rage and an unholy glee as they hovered over the keys. The blank email was a canvas, and she, a vengeful artist ready to craft her masterpiece.

Dear Mr. 'Jezebel', she began, her fingers tap-dancing across the keyboard with malicious precision. I hope this letter finds you wallowing in the mediocrity of your own making.

The words poured out, a torrent of criticism and mockery. She relished every syllable, each one a dagger aimed straight at Jasper's ego. As she wrote, Hannah's mind drifted back to her high school days—the laughter of her classmates still echoed in her ears, mocking her aspirations to become a writer. Jasper's success was a constant reminder of her own abandoned dreams; if she couldn't shine, she'd ensure he wouldn't either.

Your characters are as shallow as the kiddie pool I used to urinate in as a child, she cackled, the memory of her own childish acts of rebellion fueling her fervor. And trust me, that was far deeper than the puddle of drivel you call a plot.

With each keystroke, she revealed more of her bitter past, each anecdote serving as ammunition. Her first rejection letter from a publisher, the scathing critique from her college professor who said she lacked originality—all laid bare in the guise of critique.

Perhaps if you spent more time crafting narratives and less on those insipid book tours—where you peddle your snake oil to impressionable readers—you might produce something worth a second glance, she sneered, recalling her own fruitless attempts to get signed copies from authors who had inspired her once upon a time.

Try harder, Jasper. Or better yet, don't try at all. Save trees, save readers, save what little dignity you have left. Her laughter boomed, a macabre soundtrack to the dance of destruction she orchestrated with her fingertips.

Yours in disappointment, she finished with a flourish, signing off with a pseudonym designed to twist the knife just that little bit more—'A Disillusioned Bibliophile.'

Her chest heaved with exertion and excitement, the adrenaline pumping through her veins like a drug. She leaned back, the afterglow of her spiteful soliloquy warming her like a blanket. In her mind's eye, she could see Jasper's expression crumbling, his confidence shattering like glass under the hammer of her words.

Take that, Jasper, she whispered, her breath fogging the screen. May your inbox become the tomb of your writerly delusions.

The cursor hovered like a vulture over the send button, its electronic eye unblinking and ready to feast on the carrion of Jasper's ego. Hannah's finger twitched above the mouse, a tiny seismic event that threatened to topple empires built on literary pretensions.

Ready for your close-up, Mr. DeMille? she cackled to her computer screen, her voice tinged with mania. It was a performance worthy of the silver screen, with an audience of one—Hannah, in her role as the omnipotent critic.

Her thoughts skittered like cockroaches in a dingy apartment kitchen. What if Jasper actually read her letter? The thought made her giddy. And what if he didn't? No, that was unacceptable. He had to feel the sting, the burn of her words. She imagined him, red-faced and sweating, swearing at his laptop as her letter carved through his confidence.

Come on, Hannah, it's just an email, she muttered, psyching herself up. Not like you're launching nukes. Yet, the gravity of what she was about to do wasn't lost on her. This was war—a war of wits, and she was armed to the teeth with sarcasm and bile.

Let the games begin, she whispered, and with a dramatic flourish, she clicked. The letter zoomed off into the cyber void, a missile of malice aimed directly at Jasper's heart.

Sent! Oh, take that, you hack! The room rang with her triumphant declaration, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, filling the space with the electric pulse of victory. She leaned back in her chair, a smug smile playing on her lips.

She pictured him, the pompous author, opening her digital Pandora's box and reeling from the contents. Her heart raced with a cocktail of triumph and