Chapter 1

Welcome morning!!!!

It all started from an annoyingly bright morning, my girlfriend just left me after an argument over trivial matters. According to her, I don't pay attention, cherish, or love her. In my opinion, life is not just about being loved, loving, or having sex, or all three.

Humans also have to work and earn money for their livelihood.

Love has never been at the top of my priority list or even in the top ten of my life's goals. It's a different story if love could be eaten or monetizable. Alas, I do not hail from a lineage of billionaires; I am simply a struggling individual living paycheck to paycheck.

Unfortunately, that smart girl disagreed with my opinion. Love has made her foolish. She preferred to cry. Not to mention, she left a terrible storm trail in my house. Some things were broken because she threw them, chairs overturned, books scattered, and almost everything was out of place.

My house was like a broken ship—hit by a storm named Chrisna. My wise advice for today, if a woman is angry and crying, run away to save your life. The longer she sees you, the more things she will throw. And the deeper you have to dig into your wallet.

That is, if there's anything left to dig out.

In the afternoon, a young package delivery guy knocked on my door. I had seen his arrival from the house window since he parked his motorcycle in the yard. I always hoped that the beautiful girls would be the ones delivering packages to houses. There's nothing wrong with getting a beautiful smile from those beautiful creatures created by God and brightening the lives of suffering men, especially on annoying days.

I always support women's emancipation.

Opening the door for the package delivery guy, the young man glanced briefly into my messy house and then handed over a delivery receipt along with the package with a suspicious look on his face.

"I am a hot-tempered person," I said, signing the package acceptance letter and glaring at him. "When my heart is unhappy, I will destroy things or hit anyone randomly."

Fear immediately adorned his face, and he quickly fled. I myself smiled cynically while slamming the door. I am not the type of person who enjoys destroying things and finding myself having to spend money to buy them again. Or hitting people and ending up at the police station. I'm the type of person who gets hit and runs away to hide without doing anything.

Maybe I'll curse seven generations... then forget about it for my own well-being.

Sitting on the sofa, I opened the package which contained two letters, a small, antique-looking key, and a cash check. The first letter was a cover letter from a law firm. They wanted to use my services to create a biography book about someone named Alex Bolton.

A strange name, clearly I don't know him. My hand reached for the smartphone on the table to search for that name on the internet. Perhaps he is someone who is aspiring to be a member of parliament or president. After waiting and searching for a long time, it seems that the famous Mr. G****e didn't provide much help in giving clues and information about him.

The second letter contained a handwritten copy from the law firm's client requesting the official creation of the biography. The letter was anonymous, making me suspect that the author of the letter is Alex Bolton himself requesting the creation of his biography. However, there is always a possibility that a child, wife, family member, or someone else wants to create Alex Bolton's biography. Especially if someone named Alex Bolton has passed away.

Another strange thing is that the letter writer requested that in the making of the book, the names of locations, places, and related companies be disguised. I realize that this will be a book of true stories that will be criticized by many people.

Okay, I am indeed a freelance writer who sometimes writes for newspapers and magazines. But, until now, I have never felt like making an offer to create someone's biography book. Although a few times I felt tempted to offer services for creating a biography book for wealthy individuals or famous politicians, especially when my finances were in decline.

In reality, up to this moment, the book I wrote and sent to publishers has never been published. I sat while staring at the amount on the check, which according to him was for the work and accommodation costs during the book's creation.

How could someone trust me to create a biography book, with a cost that can be said is not cheap—just about one year's living expenses—and we don't even know each other?

On the cash check addressed in my name, there was a signature in the name of Michael Lee as the account owner. Perhaps, he is the client who wrote the request letter. I flipped the check back and forth, looking for signs of a fake check. Lately, there have been too many fraudulent schemes carried out by irresponsible people. Including some of my mischievous and playful friends. Hoping I'd be a fool in the bank and laughing at me afterward.

Perhaps only the bank personnel know the authenticity of this item.

The next hour, I returned from the bank feeling incredulous and with my savings account increased. I looked at the calendar hanging askew on the house wall, in the upcoming week, I have no events or appointments at all. If I'm honest, I don't have any plans or commitments for the next year either. I live quite isolated, like famous writers, or writers whose books don't sell well.

My eyes glanced at the backpack lying outside the wardrobe. A pitiful item bought with the dream of a long journey but ended up spending a lifetime in the closet.

Maybe this is the right time to go away for a few weeks, avoiding the storm named Chrisna.

As I've said before, I am not a storm chaser or a storm pursuer. I am a storm runner, someone who flees like lightning when seeing storm news on television even if it's still far away. I grabbed the bag, packed clothes, and just left. Leaving my house in a mess. Even if I tidy it up, when the storm doesn't find me, it will wreak havoc on the house again.

Seeing me makes her furious, not seeing me makes her furious too. Women...