The Cult of the Book
It was a strange sight for a Thursday afternoon.
Inside the downtown bookstore, a long, winding line of young men stretched from the checkout counter all the way past the manga section, wrapped around the cookbooks, and spilled halfway into the emergency stairwell. Some were sweating nervously, others adjusted their glasses or tapped their fingers against their phone screens, fidgeting like caffeine-starved squirrels.
Most of them shared a certain look — not ugly, not poor, just… invisible. The kind of guys who always raised their hands in class but never got called on. The kind of guys who apologized when someone stepped on them. Quiet, geeky, polite, and painfully single.
They were all here for one thing.
A newly released book titled “The Final Equation: Unlocking the Female Mind Through Logic” — written by the legendary street philosopher and dating theorist, Stiffen Hawken.
He held a real PhD in sociology, but nobody cared about that.
They called him PhD because of his deep, ongoing “research” into seduction, female psychology, and what he described as “erotic power dynamics in a post-modern transactional market.”
His words, not anyone else’s.
The book’s cover was dramatic: a silhouette of a man rising up with arms stretched wide toward a glowing crowd of women. His jawline looked chiseled, his eyes glowed with mystery, and his body was stacked like a gym god. It was obviously photoshopped—badly. One of his hands had six fingers. His neck looked like it had been borrowed from a giraffe.
Still, it sold.
“He solved time. Now, he solves women.”
— Stiffen Hawken (a.k.a. PhD)
Posters around the store featured quotes from the book:
“Seduction is just persuasion with better math.”
“Touch her soul… before you touch her hand.”
“Every rejection is just poorly framed data.”
Near the front, staff members were overwhelmed, constantly restocking the book table. Each new stack disappeared within seconds. The line kept growing.
One guy clutched his copy to his chest like it was a sacred artifact. “He’s not just a theorist,” he whispered. “He’s a practitioner. A field agent. He’s… living proof.”
Another nodded. “He literally cataloged over a hundred women he’s slept with. Details, techniques, timestamps. It’s like… dating science.”
Across the street, inside a small bubble tea shop, PhD sat alone at a window table.
He wore a sharp blazer over a bold floral shirt — stylish, colorful, and unmistakably attention-seeking. His build was lean and athletic, with the kind of casual posture that came from knowing exactly how good he looked. Curly hair, pale skin, thin wireframe glasses. Above average in appearance, but not quite handsome — and yet, he radiated something stronger than looks: control.
He drank red bean bubble tea through a thick straw, calmly observing the crowd through the glass.
And he smiled.
The Ticket to Salvation
Marvel stepped out of the bookstore like he’d just been anointed. The moment the automatic doors whooshed shut behind him, he paused mid-sidewalk, hugging the book tightly against his chest. People flowed around him like water around a rock, but Marvel didn’t notice. He stood there, blank-eyed and radiant, like a monk who had just seen God… or at least a very convincing diagram.
After a moment, he unwrapped one arm and opened the book.
He flipped randomly, letting fate guide him.
Page 127.
Case Study: Crimson Bloom at Union Square
Field Record #39
“Let me start by saying this: looks and money are illusions. At best, they’re shortcuts. At worst, they’re traps.”
“Sincerity… sincerity is the scalpel that cuts through everything. Pride, fear, doubt — hers and yours. Most men don’t even realize it exists.”
“There I was. Union Square. Bright day. Pigeons flapping, skateboarders zooming by, someone was playing the violin under a statue of Gandhi.”
“I held 99 roses in my arms. Not 100. Not 98. Exactly 99 — the symbolic number of unspoken desires in classical Confucian romantic theory.”
“Then I saw her. A stranger. Tall. Angelic. Hair tied in a loose bun. She was reading a book with her back against the monument. She looked up.”
“I stepped forward and said: ‘Excuse me… I know this is random… but I think I was meant to meet you today.’”
“I handed her the roses and let the silence carry the weight.”
“She blinked once. Then again. Then she smiled.”
“We walked. Talked. Shared stories over green tea. Hours passed like clouds. That night, I made love to her like I’d known her for years.”
“She said I made her feel seen. I told her the truth — that I didn’t do this often. That was a lie. But my sincerity? That was real.”
Marvel slowly closed the book.
His fingers lingered on the cover, tracing the embossed title with a kind of reverence. The core message echoed in his mind like a bell:
Sincerity… is the scalpel.
He looked up, eyes glowing faintly with determination.
He needed 99 roses.
He had about fourteen bucks and a metro card.
No fancy looks. No fancy wallet. But sincerity?
He could summon that.
Marvel took one step forward—
—but before he could take the second, something else caught his attention.
A Familiar Face and a Salty Memory
Marvel was just about to step off the curb and hunt for roses when something stopped him.
Across the street, inside the bubble tea shop, he spotted a man.
Floral shirt. Curly hair. Wireframe glasses. Muscular frame, blazer tight across the chest.
He sipped a red bean bubble tea through a fat straw, slowly, like he had all the time in the world.
Marvel’s eyes narrowed.
There was something familiar about him. That lazy posture… that smug half-smile…
And then it hit him — hard.
Wait… that’s him. That’s… Professor Stiffen Hawken… from the TV interview.
A memory flashed in his brain like a spotlight flicking on.
The night of the broadcast.
The dim-lit studio. His trembling voice. The full confession. The failed kiss. The tears.
And on the couch beside him — the man who said almost nothing the whole time.
The one lounging like he was half-asleep.
Marvel remembered him now.
He didn’t comment, didn’t judge… just watched. And flicked a booger at me during the commercial.
Marvel’s eyes widened even more.
I ate that.
In a trance, Marvel crossed the street, pushed open the door to the bubble tea shop, and headed straight for the table.
“You!” Marvel blurted. “You’re PhD! From the book! From the interview!”
PhD looked up slowly. He blinked once behind his glasses, then gave a lazy smirk.
“Oh?” he said. “You saw that episode?”
Marvel nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! You were the one lying on the couch the whole time! I was the guest!”
PhD let out a breath through his nose. “Right… Yeah, I was asleep through most of it. The host was way too rude. I just tuned out.”
“Oh… I see.” Marvel rubbed the back of his neck, then lowered his voice. “But… you remember the booger?”
PhD looked mildly confused, then chuckled. “Hmm. I wouldn’t recommend doing something like that, but… I hope you feel alright now.”
Marvel smiled nervously and sat down.
“I’ve been your fanboy for a while now, Mr. Stephen Hawken.”
PhD raised a brow slightly. “Please, don’t call me that. People usually just call me PhD.”
“Oh. Okay. Mr. PhD…” Marvel sat up straighter. “I really admire your techniques. And your mindset. Your book really opened my eyes. May I… ask you a few questions? About love?”
PhD glanced at his watch and gave a small shrug.
“Sure. I’ve got five minutes.”
The Numbers Game
Marvel leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table, eyes shining with hunger — not for food, but for knowledge.
“Okay, Mr. PhD,” he said breathlessly. “I’ve always wanted to ask… What’s the real secret of love?”
PhD leaned back, tapping one finger against his mostly empty cup. He let the silence stretch for a second or two, then exhaled slowly — like he was about to recite a sacred truth.
“The secret of love,” he said, voice low and meaningful, “is sincerity.”
Marvel blinked.
“Sincerity?”
PhD nodded solemnly.
“When you look someone in the eye, and you strip away all your armor — no filters, no fronts, no pretensions — that’s when you connect. That’s when love becomes real. You let her see the chaos inside you… and somehow, she still wants to stay. That’s sincerity.”
Marvel stared at him like he was witnessing a miracle.
“Wow… That’s deep.”
PhD gave a soft smile and sipped the last bit of bubble tea.
Inside, his mind wandered.
That sounded kinda cool. I should use that line in the next book. Or a podcast.
Marvel hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“Uh, if you don’t mind… Can I ask something a little more personal?”
PhD shrugged. “Sure. I’m open to anything.”
Marvel leaned in like he was sharing a secret.
“How many girls have you slept with?”
PhD didn’t even flinch.
“Oh… that,” he said, as if it were a weather report. “Too many. Honestly, I lost count years ago.”
Marvel’s eyes widened.
PhD went on casually, “But if you want a rough idea, I can tell you something based on what I wrote in the book.”
Marvel nodded eagerly.
“Well,” PhD said, “excluding the massage parlors… I’d say I’ve grabbed about a thousand boobs.”
Marvel’s jaw dropped. “A… a thousand?!”
“Yeah,” PhD replied, adjusting his sleeve. “Now, remember — one girl has two boobs. So a thousand boobs divided by two…”
He held up two fingers and drew the imaginary equation in the air.
“…means roughly five hundred girls.”
Marvel whispered, “Holy crap… five hundred…”
“That’s not even counting repeat visits,” PhD added with a smirk. “Or massage rooms with curtains.”
Marvel looked like he was having a spiritual awakening.
“I feel like… I learned something powerful today,” he said.
Then, after a pause, he extended his hand. “Can I… shake your hand?”
PhD looked at it for a second.
Then he shrugged and shook it — firm, brief, with zero emotion.
As he stood up, he crumpled the empty plastic cup and dropped it into the nearby trash bin without missing a beat.
“Well,” he said, “I gotta go. Be good. Be sincere.”
And just like that, he walked out the door, floral shirt catching the wind, curly hair bouncing slightly with each step.
Marvel watched him disappear down the street like a prophet returning to the clouds.
He sat there for a long moment.
One Man’s Ruin
Marvel remained seated in the bubble tea shop, quietly sipping his drink as he watched PhD stroll out into the sunlight. The man’s colorful blazer caught glints of gold under the afternoon rays. With his polished shoes clicking softly on the pavement, PhD looked like he had not a care in the world.
But someone had been waiting for him.
A young man stepped forward from the side of the street and blocked his path. His face was pale. His fists were clenched. His body trembled with something far more explosive than nerves.
“You bastard,” he growled. “How dare you sleep with my wife?!”
PhD stopped.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just tilted his head ever so slightly and replied with a calm, almost puzzled voice:
“Oh? Your wife? Which one?”
The man’s voice cracked, his chest heaving. “Julie! You know damn well which one!”
PhD gave a slow blink.
“I know a lot of Julies,” he said. “You’ll need to narrow it down.”
The man stepped closer, spitting out the details like bullets.
“The one with the ponytail. Always wore a pink blouse. Works at an insurance company. Gets tipsy off half a beer.”
PhD gave a soft “ah,” like something finally clicked.
“That one.”
The man didn’t stop.
“She used to be a really nice girl. We met years ago. We just got married—less than three months ago. I thought everything was finally going in the right direction.”
His voice grew shaky, barely holding together.
“We were gonna have kids. We were gonna grow old together. We had dreams. A whole future. All laid out.”
He swallowed, but the pain pushed through anyway.
“But now… it’s gone. All of it.”
He looked up. His eyes, now glassy, were locked on PhD’s.
“She looks at me like I’m a stranger. We don’t talk. We don’t touch. We sleep in different rooms. She doesn’t smile anymore. Not at me.”
His voice cracked again.
“We’re not the same people. Not after you. You broke something I can’t fix.”
He choked out the last words.
“There are so many women in the world. So many. Why her?”
PhD stared at him in silence for a beat. Then let out a faint exhale and shrugged.
“Why her?”
He tilted his chin.
“I don’t know. I’ve had… so many. I don’t remember their names. Or what they do. Their backgrounds. Their stories. None of that matters.”
His voice was smooth. Cold. Almost businesslike.
“I just have fun. Add to the count. That’s all.”
Then, as if flipping through mental flashcards, PhD drifted into thought.
Ah… that one.
She had a really nice body… her face always a little flushed… her gasps — soft, playful, just the right amount of seductive… feminine in all the right ways.
He snapped back to the moment.
Still expressionless.
Still calm.
Marvel, watching through the glass, felt a chill crawl down his spine.
The man across from PhD said nothing now.
He simply stood there. Shaking. Cracking from the inside out.
And something in the air shifted — thickened — like the seconds before a storm.
But PhD… just casually checked his watch.
The Man I Want to Become
The tension in the air finally snapped.
The young man took one shaky breath—and screamed.
“RAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”
His body tensed, veins bulging, eyes wild. He roared to the sky as his hair shot upward, turning bright gold like a Super Saiyan. A violent gust of energy exploded from him, rattling windows and shaking lamp posts. Pedestrians screamed and ducked for cover.
Without warning, he grabbed a nearby parked car—a blue Toyota sedan—and hurled it like a discus straight at PhD.
Marvel, from behind the bubble tea shop window, gasped and stood up.
The car spun midair, flipping side-over-side toward PhD like a flying wrecking ball.
But PhD didn’t move.
He casually raised one arm and caught the car with a single hand—stopping it completely, as if catching a slow-moving beach ball. The metal groaned against his palm.
He looked down at it, sighed, and gently placed it back onto the ground, making sure not to dent the fender.
Then he looked up.
“Are you done?” he asked flatly.
But the golden-haired man was already charging.
He launched forward with a roar, fists blazing like meteors. His feet cracked the pavement with every step. The first punch flew in—a straight jab.
PhD leaned sideways, letting it brush past his cheek.
The second was a wild hook.
PhD ducked under it without blinking.
Third, fourth, fifth—rapid combos, raw power, no control.
PhD finally stepped forward and delivered a single punch to the man’s ribs. The sound echoed like a drum.
The golden-haired man gasped, mouth open, eyes wide. He staggered back, coughing blood.
But he wasn’t done.
He screamed again, leaping up and trying to come down with a two-fist smash from above.
PhD stepped aside and let him crash into the sidewalk.
As the man clumsily stood up, PhD adjusted his sleeve.
Then came the final blow.
PhD spun his torso slightly, planted his feet, and punched the man square in the chest.
The impact shot the man backward like a missile. He smashed into a nearby streetlamp, bounced off, and hit the ground with a sickening thud.
His golden hair faded back to black.
Silence fell.
PhD adjusted his blazer, then bent down to pick up something he had dropped earlier—a used condom wrapper that had fallen from his pocket mid-fight. He brushed a speck of dirt off it, and casually tossed it into the trash.
Then he walked away. Calm. Unbothered. Like he had just finished filing paperwork.
Inside the bubble tea shop, Marvel stood frozen.
His lips parted. His eyes sparkled with a weird kind of admiration.
He had just seen a man catch a flying car. Knock out a Super Saiyan in five moves. Walk away like it was nothing.
But more than that—he had seen the same man talk about women like they were numbers on a scoreboard.
Strength. And romantic success.
Power in body, and power in charm.
Marvel’s grip tightened around his drink.
“That’s the man I want to become…”