Charlie Evans slumped into his chair, the glow of his tablet reflecting off tired eyes. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertain. Outside his tiny apartment, the city pulsed with neon lights and electric chatter. AI-generated entertainment flooded every device, custom-tailored to individual tastes, perfect and predictable.

There were no more bookstores, no publishing houses. Authors, as they once existed, were extinct.

Yet, Charlie wrote. He had to.

His latest story—a gritty drama about a paramedic navigating a world teetering on the edge of collapse—was another labor of love that no one would read. Not because it was bad, but because it wasn’t necessary. No one needed a writer when they could simply ask their AI to spin them a personalized masterpiece, tailored exactly to their mood, their preferences, their deepest desires.

Charlie leaned back, staring at the rejection message on his screen.

We appreciate your submission, but the demand for human-written content is virtually nonexistent. We encourage you to explore AI-assisted storytelling tools to enhance your craft.

The message wasn’t even from a human. It had been automatically generated.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “Enhance my craft,” he muttered. “What craft is left?”

He wasn’t naive. He understood why AI had taken over. People wanted stories that catered to their every whim. They didn’t want unpredictability. They didn’t want challenge. They wanted perfection.

But perfection was dull.

Charlie closed his tablet and stood, stretching the knots out of his shoulders. His shift started in an hour. A night in the city’s emergency response unit wasn’t something AI could simulate, not truly. The blood, the desperation, the human ache—those things weren’t programmable.

Perhaps that was the difference between AI and real storytellers. AI could mimic experience, but it couldn’t feel it.

His communicator buzzed. “Charlie, we’re gonna need you early. Got a pile-up on Grand and Seventh. It’s bad.”

He sighed, grabbing his jacket. Another night, another crisis.

As he stepped outside into the cold, he made a promise to himself. He wouldn’t stop writing. He didn’t care if no one read his words. Some things weren’t about an audience. Some things were about survival.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, someone would stumble upon his stories. Someone who wanted more than manufactured perfection. Someone who longed for something real.

**This short story was generated entirely by AI.**