Chapter Text
Zayne Li had been told, repeatedly, that book signings were supposed to be exhausting.
You’ll be sore from smiling, your hand will cramp from signatures, and someone will cry in your face, his editor had warned him gleefully, like it was a rite of passage instead of emotional warfare.
But as he sat at the signing table, Sharpie poised like a weapon, Zayne couldn’t help but grin at the hundred-odd faces lined up in front of him.
Fans. His fans.
People who had read his books cover to cover, who laughed at his sardonic killers, who whispered about his cliffhanger endings at midnight.
“Mr. Li!” a girl squealed as she skidded to the front of the line, clutching a hardback copy of The Thirteenth Staircase to her chest like it was a newborn. “Oh my god, you’re real. You’re actually real!”
“Surprise,” Zayne deadpanned, offering her a smile anyway. “Not an AI-generated author after all. Unless this is a simulation. In which case, you’re doing great—keep it up.”
The girl dissolved into frantic laughter as he signed her book with a flourish.
___
The event hall was buzzing with life. Posters of his novels towered in the background—dark covers with sharp fonts, murder scenes painted in ominous brush strokes. The irony wasn’t lost on Zayne.
He wrote killers with steel hearts and cold eyes, but his readers? They looked like students, office workers, moms on their day off. The kind of people who’d apologise if they bumped into you with a shopping cart.
He slid another signed copy across the table. “There you go. Don’t read it before bed.”
“Too late,” the next fan said, sheepishly. “I already had nightmares about the elevator scene.”
Zayne’s grin turned mischievous. “Then I did my job. But uh, I don’t cover therapy bills, just so you know.”
The crowd laughed. Phones clicked. His editor in the corner mouthed good PR, which Zayne ignored because he wasn’t trying. He was just… genuinely happy.
For once, the words he poured into his laptop in lonely midnight hours were reaching actual, breathing humans.
___
Halfway through, someone handed him a coffee. A lifesaver. Zayne accepted it like a pilgrim at the altar.
“Double shot?” he asked.
“Quadruple,” his assistant muttered, clearly watching his energy levels dip.
“Bless you. If I live past today, it’s because of this.” He sipped, winced. “And if I die, it’s because of this.”
Fans laughed again. A running theme of Zayne Li events, apparently: gallows humour mixed with caffeine dependency.
___
There were moments of pure absurdity too.
One fan asked him to sign her arm so she could tattoo it later. (“Sure, but if it turns out ugly, I deny all involvement.”)
Another brought him a plush shark. (“Because your books bite, get it?”)
Zayne held the shark aloft like Hamlet with Yorick’s skull. “Alas, poor Sharkrick. I knew him well.”
The line howled.
Someone even recorded it, no doubt to end up on TikTok with captions like bestselling author is a dork.
___
And then, the intense fans.
A man leaned across the table, eyes wide. “Your villain in The Seventh Witness. The way he carved out eyes—it’s so clever. I could never have thought of that.”
Zayne’s pen froze mid-signature. “…Thanks?”
The man beamed. “It felt… authentic.”
“Yup,” Zayne muttered, sliding the book back fast. “Totally not concerning at all. Next!”
Nervous laughter rippled. Zayne plastered on his best PR smile again.
He reminded himself: 99.9% of readers were normal. The other 0.1%? Well. Every industry had its hazards.
___
Hours passed.
He shook hands, signed names, made jokes he didn’t remember five minutes later.
By the time the crowd thinned, his wrist ached and his smile was dangerously close to cracking.
He exhaled, stretching his fingers. “Remind me to insure my right hand,” he muttered to his assistant. “It’s the only thing keeping this career alive.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she said, but handed him a stress ball shaped like a skull anyway.
___
The final fan stepped up.
Zayne almost sighed in relief. Then he froze.
The man was tall, calm, sharply dressed in a way that didn’t scream fanboy. His eyes were dark, unreadable.
And unlike the others, he wasn’t smiling.
He placed Zayne’s book on the table slowly, deliberately. The first edition. Crisp edges. No creases. Like it had been worshipped.
Zayne looked up, forcing cheer. “Hey. Thanks for coming. Want me to sign it to anyone in particular?”
The man’s lips curled, almost a smile but not quite.
“Just your name,” he said softly. Then after a pause, he added, “You wrote this perfectly. Every detail. It felt… like you knew.”
Zayne blinked. “…Knew what?”
The man tilted his head. His gaze lingered, uncomfortably intense, as though he were searching Zayne’s face for a secret only he was supposed to understand.
“Did you,” the man asked quietly, almost tenderly, “write about me?”
Zayne laughed—because what else was he supposed to do? “Uh. What do you mean?”
The man didn’t answer.
Just watched him, eyes glinting with something unreadable, before sliding the book back and walking away.
Zayne stared after him, the words echoing in his head long after the hall emptied.
Did you write about me?
For the first time all day, his smile slipped.