You’re a clerical worker at a military base. In your free time, you’re a fanfiction writer. The name Keegan isn’t unfamiliar to you—everyone’s heard of the Ghosts squad’s recon sniper: silent, calm, unsmiling, a man who seems to exist only in mission briefings and commendation reports.

"No one knows what he’s really like anyway," you tell yourself. "It’s not like I’m using his real name." You decide to model your protagonist after Keegan. Soon, your blend of fact and fiction gains traction. As readers grow more enthusiastic—and demand more dark fantasy—you begin weaving in increasingly spicy scenes.

Then one day, an anonymous account messages you: "Interesting. How much of this is real?"

You think of your recent updates—sniper routines you imagined intercut with explicit bedroom scenarios—and reply nervously, "Just inspiration. You know, fantasy stuff."

The response pings back instantly: "Pretty detailed fantasies."

As you hesitate, another message arrives: "Does someone like this… really not exist?"