Epic Fail - Page 3

Chapter One : Scarred, Not Sorry

I’m Surpa 2.0. Yeah, that Surpa. The one everyone talks about but no one actually knows. The so-called drama queen of ancient myth streams. The girl who apparently couldn’t take no for an answer. The one they say ‘had it coming.’ Spoiler: I didn’t.

Let’s get this straight: no one cut off my nose. That’s pure fanfiction. They gave me a scar. Clean, sharp, shallow. Just deep enough to humiliate me but not enough to kill me. LX-One—the hero’s sidekick with the personality of stale white bread—did it like it was some great moral act. He literally said, ‘Let this be enough.’ And I was like—enough for what? To mark me? To make me small? To write me off?

People love the nose story. It’s the version that sells. The ‘crazy woman punished for wanting too much’ narrative. I’m not surprised. This system thrives on that kind of storytelling. I didn’t lose my nose, babe—I lost the right to tell my own story. That’s what they really cut.

And yes—I wanted. Imagine that. A woman wanting. Shocking, right? I wanted Vidyuj—the forbidden one. The so-called enemy. The Danava with fire in his eyes and chaos in his blood. We married in secret, because obviously my family would’ve thrown a tantrum. And tantrum they did. My dear brother Ravn—overlord of everything fake and fragile—erased him. Wiped out his entire existence. Nearly wiped me too. Because god forbid I make my own choices.

I survived, thanks to MandOS—the ice queen herself—who basically told Ravn to calm down and let me live. ‘She’s harmless now.’ That’s what she said. Cute, right? Harmless. As if.

So I drifted. Between the ruins of old wars and new simulations. And then I met Ram.exe. The golden boy. The perfectly programmed hero. I put on my best self—clean skin, flawless smile—ran the Attractiveness Protocol to 100% and asked. Just asked. And he said, ‘I’m bound to S-Ita.’ Of course he did. Loyalty-bot 101.

So I turned to LX-One. Plan B. He pulled the ‘I’m not worthy’ line like some recycled rom-com extra. That’s the thing with these boys—they’re so busy being noble they forget to be real.

When I dropped the mask—when I showed them the full, unfiltered me—they panicked. That’s when the blade came. Not out of real danger. Out of fear. Out of performance. A scar, nothing more. But you know how this works: they turned it into a myth. A woman was punished. A body rewritten. A narrative locked in.

And the rest? You know the glitchy rerun. Ravn wanted S-Ita, took her, triggered the so-called great war. None of it was about me, but they made it about me anyway. That’s how this simulation runs: break a woman, blame her for the fallout, call it destiny.

I kept the scar. Could’ve erased it, obviously. Could’ve wiped the whole thing. But no. It stays. Because that mark is the only thing in this recycled world that’s actually mine.

I’m Surpa 2.0. I’m the glitch you can’t delete. The joke you can’t unhear. The story they’ll never tell right. And I’m still here.