Daniel Garcia has no idea how genre works, and honestly? Good for him. One day it’s war-torn sci-fi with sentient AIs debating the soul, the next it’s feminist romance with werewolf metaphors and best friends yelling about patriarchy over brunch—while making sex metaphors and innuendo like a twenty-something woman who escaped a Puritan convent but still can’t bring himself to use anatomically correct terminology. Born with too many feelings and not enough chill, Dan writes the kind of stories that make you text your therapist mid-chapter and whisper “oh no” out loud in public. When he’s not emotionally dismantling fictional characters (or readers), he’s raising two daughters who already understand emotional regulation better than most adults, and working on an advanced computer science degree so he can build the AI that eventually replaces him. Spoiler: the AI will over analyze every interaction, write like Baldwin raised it and McCarthy taught it shame, and have exactly one coping mechanism: metaphor. It won’t understand genres, direct affection, or why it cries during Pixar films. Basically, it’s Dan—if you uploaded his unresolved issues and gave them access to JSTOR. And the dedications? Yeah. You don’t get a choice. They’re always the last chapter. Man doesn’t do cryptic dad one-liners like “I’m proud of you, kiddo.” No. He writes full-on emotional blueprints in case he dies mid-series. They’re for his daughters—but somehow you end up crying in a Walgreens parking lot, reconsidering your entire relationship with vulnerability. Seriously—no chill.