Everything hurt.
That was Ryo's first thought as he regained consciousness. His body felt heavy, his skin tingling with a sharp, stinging sensation. Groggily, he pushed against the weight pressing down on him.
Not weight—something cold and lifeless.
As his vision cleared, Ryo realized he had just shoved a charred corpse off himself. His breath caught in his throat. The moment he inhaled, the thick, acrid scent of burnt flesh assaulted his senses. His stomach twisted violently, and he scrambled backward, his hands trembling as he covered his nose.
The body in front of him was horrifying—blistered skin, blood-soaked clothes, burnt hair, and a twisted expression of agony frozen on its face. His mind reeled, heart hammering.
Yet instead of blind panic, Ryo forced himself to stay calm. He needed to think. He needed to understand.
Memories flooded back—his last moments before losing consciousness. His eyes darted around the dimly lit room. The low hum of his computer filled the silence. His gaze passed over his unmade bed, the gaming consoles piled on it, and finally landed on the closed door.
Then, his eyes snapped back to his computer screen.
A burning silhouette of a woman flickered on the left side of the screen. The background was an illustration from a visual novel—a massive oil truck colliding with a bus, both engulfed in flames.
The image triggered something deep within him.
The sensation of being burned alive surged through his mind, his nerves screaming in phantom pain. His lungs tightened, breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps. His arms trembled violently.
Then—
Bzzt.
The sudden vibration of a phone shattered the silence.
Ryo stiffened. That wasn't his phone. He had sold his months ago just to afford more dating sims and adult games. Which meant...
His gaze shifted to the corpse.
Bzzt.
A faint glow pulsed from the pocket of the burnt body—Hayato's pants.
The room fell into eerie stillness.
Time slowed as Ryo stared at the body. Everything about this was wrong. Not just the gruesome scene before him, but how it had come to be.
This shouldn't have been possible.
He had tried for two years to bring things back from the game worlds—money, food, women, even animals. Every attempt had failed. The moment he exited a game, whatever he took would vanish.
Yet now, after a desperate struggle to escape, after being trapped in that world... he had succeeded.
But instead of joy, all he felt was disgust.
And intrigue.
Bzzt.
The phone vibrated again.
Almost on instinct, Ryo stepped forward, crouching beside the corpse. His hands shook as he reached into the right pocket. He wasn't sure why he was doing this—maybe curiosity, maybe a need for answers. His fingers closed around the cold, damaged device, and he pulled it out.
The screen was cracked, the display bleeding ink, but it still functioned. And at the top, four notifications stood out:
One from Nanami—a picture of their date, edited with cutesy filters.
The other three were from—
Observer's Circle Chatroom
[HighschoolGirlLover]: What even is this stuff? And who are you guys???
[SystemBug404]: New anomaly detected.
[GodEater]: Heh, another one? What's this one's deal?
[Unwritten]: Welcome, newcomer. You must be confused. Let me explain.
Ryo blinked at the chat. His fingers hovered over the screen before hesitantly typing:
[HighschoolGirlLover]: Who are you guys?
The replies came fast.
[Unwritten]: We are anomalies, like you. Mistakes in reality. Beings who shouldn't exist. The world hates and isolates us. The fact that you're here proves it. But don't be mistaken—this isn't a safe haven for anomalies. If anything, your presence here marks your execution. You are now twice as hated.
Ryo felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over him.
He had always suspected his powers weren't normal—had even entertained the idea that they were supernatural. It was why he'd developed a growing interest in the occult and urban legends. But if what they were saying was true…
His eyes flicked around the room. Small. Cramped. Just enough space for a bed, a desk, and a closet. A direct result of misfortune—his parents' sudden divorce, his father losing his job, a downward spiral of bad luck that never seemed to end.
He had once thought he was lucky to have his cheat ability.
Now, he realized how unlucky he truly was.
[HighschoolGirlLover]: @Unwritten You said I'd be twice as hated. What does that really mean? And how are we even communicating?
[Unwritten]: The world reacts differently to certain anomalies. Take Lost_Traveler for example—I'd classify him as a timeline anomaly. The world he's in actively rejects him, trying to erase him completely. Whether it's because of an anomaly in his birth or something else, he doesn't belong. His existence is the highest level of rejection I've seen.
If you haven't experienced anything like that, you should be fine. For now.
[HighschoolGirlLover]: I haven't… but I did experience something strange. And to be honest, I don't know how to deal with it.
[Unwritten]: What happened? Don't be afraid to share. Maybe I can help.
[SystemBug404]: Yes. Please share.
[GodEater]: Tch. Another newbie. Tell us your error first if you want help.
[HighschoolGirlLover]: …Error?
[GodEater]: Your anomaly, dumbass. What makes you unnatural?
Ryo hesitated.
Was it safe to tell them?
Still, he had no idea how to fix this mess. And if it happened once, what if it happened again? His fingers hovered over the cracked screen. He didn't even know if the people in this chat were real… but he had no choice.
[HighschoolGirlLover]: I can enter video games. The worlds become real to me. But recently, I was trapped in one, completely unable to leave. I felt helpless. But somehow, I managed to escape before it was too late.
But the real problem?
I didn't come back alone.
(Attached Images: [Image 1] [Image 2] [Image 3])
Silence.
Then—
[Unwritten]: …Oh. Oh, this is a problem.
[SystemBug404]: Fascinating. But I have to ask… does your username reflect your preferred game genre? If so, I'm curious how you managed to bring a half-burnt corpse back with you.
[GodEater]: Ugh. This just killed my appetite. @Unwritten, you deal with this. I'm out.
Ryo didn't get a chance to finish reading the responses before the phone screen went black.
No. No, no, no.
He pressed the power button frantically. Nothing. The faint vibration of the phone powering down was his only response.
"Shit!"
The room suddenly felt too quiet, the walls pressing in on him. He glanced at the body again. The stench was settling, clinging to the air like an accusation. He could feel it seeping into his skin, the kind of smell that didn't just wash off. His breath came faster.
He needed to think.
A body. In his room. A dead, burned body. This wasn't one of his sims. There were no do-overs. No saves to reload. He was standing in the aftermath of something he didn't understand, and the world was still moving forward.
The thought scraped against his mind like nails on glass—what if someone knocked? What if his dad decided to came home?
Ryo swallowed hard. His gaze drifted to the bedroom door.
Right. He needed to move. If he was going to hide the evidence, he needed supplies.
And the kitchen was the perfect place to start.
Without hesitation, he stepped into the hallway, heading straight for the kitchen.
Ryo's footsteps echoed softly in the cramped hallway as he made his way to the kitchen. His mind was a storm of thoughts—disjointed, racing, and in utter disarray. He reached the door and hesitated for a moment before pushing it open. The kitchen was small, the tile floor cracked in several places, and the counters barely had room for a few mismatched appliances.
He didn't care about any of that right now.
He moved instinctively, his eyes darting to the corner of the room where the plastic bags usually sat. There were only a few scattered rolls of plastic wrap and some trash bags tucked under the sink. His heart beat louder in his chest, and his hands felt like they were moving on their own, as if his body had taken control.
Ryo grabbed a roll of plastic wrap from the counter, the clear film crinkling under his fingers as he yanked it from the dispenser. The bags were next—thin, black plastic bags, flimsy, the kind you'd use to hold old newspapers or throw out stale bread. He pulled out a couple, feeling the weight of them in his hands, and glanced around the kitchen one last time. His stomach churned, but there was no time for hesitation.
The door to his room still stood just down the hall, the faintest memory of the stench drifting toward him. He swallowed hard, trying not to gag.
The longer he waited, the more the image of the body—the charred corpse that shouldn't even be real—pressed in on him. There was no going back now. He had to finish this.
After a quick glance at his grandfather's old, dusty TV stand, Ryo stepped over and grabbed a roll of cheap tape, the plastic casing cracked from years of use. It was the only thing within arm's reach, and his hands moved without thinking as he stuffed it into his pocket.
With everything he needed in hand, he turned back down the hallway, dreading every step toward the room. The thought of the body, the smell, the weight of it all—it was overwhelming, suffocating.
Ryo's fingers tightened around the plastic bags as he approached the door. He could already smell it before he even touched the handle—an overpowering stench of burnt flesh and something foul that crawled into his lungs, making him want to cough and gag.
But he held it back.
He didn't let himself react. He didn't have time to react.
The door creaked open, and Ryo stepped inside.
For a second, his legs froze.
The sight of the charred body—still sprawled across the floor, lifeless and inhuman—made his throat tighten. The skin was peeled back in places, burnt beyond recognition, and the burnt flesh still oozed the remnants of a terrible agony. The smell hit him with full force, and his stomach flipped violently. He staggered, barely keeping himself upright.
But he had to focus.
Breathe.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
He stepped forward, his knees weak, but he forced himself to kneel next to the body. The plastic wrap felt slippery in his hands as he unfurled the clear sheet. Slowly, methodically, he began to wrap it around the bottom half of the corpse. The sound of the plastic crackling against the charred skin made his teeth grit.
His stomach churned, but he swallowed it down.
The body felt cold, even though it had only been dead for a short while. He worked quickly, wrapping the body up as tightly as he could. The film clung to every scarred edge, the smell intensifying with each turn of the wrap.
He paused for a moment, his hands trembling. Was this real? Was he really doing this?
But there was no going back now. He couldn't leave it here.
With a deep breath, he pulled the wrap tight over the top of the body. He used two rolls of the plastic film, covering both the top and bottom as completely as he could. The wrap was now a thick layer, suffocating the burnt flesh, making it almost unrecognizable.
He took the first black plastic bag, rolling it open with trembling hands, and slid the body inside. The bag was just large enough, and as he maneuvered the body in, he realized how clumsy the whole process felt. The plastic crinkled as he zipped the bag closed, a faint sloshing sound following the motion.
Then, he repeated the process. He grabbed another plastic bag, this one slightly bigger than the first, and slid it over the top. The corpse was now double-wrapped, each layer tight, secured by the sticky tape he applied in careful lines across the seams.
Tape. More tape.
Ryo's fingers felt like they were made of lead, but he worked with precision, making sure everything was sealed tightly. No gaps. No chance for anything to slip through.
Another roll of saran wrap came next, and he started over again, layering the film over the body to form an additional seal. His eyes darted around the room as he worked—darting to the old mattress on the floor, the barely functioning desk, the single, cracked window that barely let in any light.
It was like he was in a daze, moving on autopilot. The next black plastic bag slid over the first, covering everything. The tape went across the seams again, sealing it all in a suffocating embrace. The tape pulled tight, and it was finished.
He stood there for a moment, staring down at the sealed body. His pulse was a chaotic thrum in his ears. He didn't want to look at it anymore.
But he couldn't let his eyes wander. Not yet.
He quickly stripped off his clothes, the stained and torn shirt, the pants that now felt soiled by the experience. The remnants of the night, the fear, the guilt—they were all clinging to him. The scent of burnt flesh was stuck to his skin, and he had no choice but to throw the clothes into a separate plastic bag.
He sealed the bag tightly, a grimace on his face.
It had to be done.
Ryo grabbed the tightly wrapped corpse by its sides, dragging it toward the door. He felt his arms tremble under the weight, his muscles screaming at him, but he gritted his teeth and moved forward.
The basement door was just a few steps away.
He opened it, the stairs dark and narrow. The air down there was stale, stagnant with years of disuse.
But it didn't matter.
Ryo took one last look around the room, his heart racing as he descended into the basement. The door slammed shut behind him. He set the body down, finally letting the weight of the situation settle.
He knew what had to come next. He knew what he had to do.
But for the first time, the sound of his breathing seemed too loud in the silence of the basement.
The basement was dark. The air was thick with the smell of damp concrete and something stale, like mold and old wood. It was cold down here, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made your skin crawl.
Ryo stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, the weight of the body still in his hands. His arms ached, his fingers stiff from gripping the plastic-wrapped corpse too tightly. His mind screamed at him to stop, to turn around, to run—but there was nowhere to go. No one to call.
This was his problem.
His problem alone.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to move. The basement was small, cluttered with forgotten furniture, old boxes, and stacks of newspapers that had yellowed with age. A broken-down washer sat in the corner, rust creeping along its edges. The floor was cracked in places, the cement uneven, but there was a space near the back—where the wall met the floor—that was just big enough.
Ryo dragged the body toward it, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The plastic scraped against the floor, the sound of it making his stomach twist. The weight wasn't unbearable, but it was awkward, shifting with each movement, the bulk of it making it harder than it should've been.
The plastic crinkled beneath his fingers as he adjusted his grip, pushing the body toward the darkest corner of the basement. His mind raced, going over every possible way this could go wrong.
What if someone found it?
He couldn't just leave it sitting there. Even wrapped up, even sealed as tightly as he could manage, the smell would get out eventually. The basement wasn't airtight. The scent of rot had a way of seeping into everything.
His eyes darted around, looking for anything—anything—that could help.
There were a few old blankets shoved against the wall, forgotten and covered in dust. He grabbed one, shaking it out, coughing as a cloud of grime exploded into the air. His hands moved quickly, wrapping the blanket around the plastic-covered corpse. It wasn't much, but it would help dull the shape.
But that wasn't enough.
His heart pounded against his ribs as he scanned the room again. His grandfather's old tool chest sat against the far wall, rusted shut, but a few bricks and broken pieces of wood were piled nearby. He grabbed them, his fingers numb as he stacked them around the body, trying to make it look like nothing more than a pile of discarded junk.
It wasn't perfect. Hell, it wasn't even good.
But it was all he had.
Ryo took a step back, his breath shallow. His clothes were gone, sealed away in a plastic bag upstairs. His hands felt dirty, even though there was no blood, no real evidence that clung to his skin.
But the weight in his chest didn't go away.
He stared at the covered corpse, his stomach twisting, nausea threatening to take over. His hands shook, his knees felt weak.
He turned and staggered toward the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.
When he reached the top, he paused, glancing back into the dark.
The body was hidden.
For now.
But the thought clung to him, thick and suffocating.
This wasn't over.
—
Ryo stood in the hallway, his breath still unsteady, his body cold despite the stale heat that clung to the air. His mind raced through everything he had just done, every movement, every step, every mistake he might have made. Had he wrapped it tightly enough? Had he cleaned up properly?
His hands twitched at his sides. His skin felt dirty, even though there was no blood, no visible stain on his fingers. But he could feel it—like something crawling beneath his skin, something that wouldn't come off no matter how hard he scrubbed.
Shower. He needed a shower.
He moved on autopilot, stepping into the cramped bathroom. The sink was cracked, the faucet dripping constantly, the sound filling the silence with something rhythmic and almost mocking. The mirror above it was old, the glass warped at the edges, distorting his reflection just enough to make him uneasy.
He turned the shower knob. The pipes groaned, then sputtered out weak streams of water before finally giving in, releasing a weak but steady flow. It wasn't hot—not even close—but it was enough.
Ryo peeled off the clothes he had thrown on after dumping the bloodstained ones in the plastic bag. He tossed them onto the floor. His body was covered in sweat, his skin clammy, his muscles aching from the strain of carrying the corpse downstairs.
He stepped under the spray, his breath hitching as the freezing water hit his skin. He scrubbed hard, fingers digging into his arms, his chest, his neck—anywhere that felt wrong. But no matter how much he scrubbed, it didn't feel like enough.
The image of the plastic-wrapped corpse flashed in his mind. The way it crinkled. The way the shape shifted when he moved it.
He braced his hands against the wall, head bowed, water dripping from his hair. His throat tightened. What the hell had he done?
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Eventually, the water ran too cold even for him, and he turned it off. He dried off quickly, wrapping a thin, worn towel around his waist. His movements were sluggish as he walked back into his room.
The smell was still there.
Not strong, not overpowering, but it lingered—a phantom of what it had been before. Or maybe it was just in his head. Maybe it would never go away.
His gaze drifted to the floor. Cleaning. He should clean.
He forced himself to move, stepping back into the hallway and heading toward the kitchen. The floor creaked beneath his feet, the sound making his skin prickle. It felt too loud, like every sound was amplified in the silence.
The cleaning supplies were shoved under the sink, half-used bottles of cheap disinfectant, a rusted scrub brush, and a pack of old, thin rags. He grabbed them all, his grip tight, knuckles white.
Back in his room, he got to work.
He scrubbed the floor with a focus that bordered on obsessive, pouring too much disinfectant, the scent of chemicals burning his nose. The brush scratched against the floor, his movements frantic, desperate. He worked until his arms burned, until his fingers ached, until he felt like maybe—just maybe—he could breathe again.
The room smelled of nothing but bleach and cheap pine-scented cleaner by the time he was done.
But the weight in his chest remained.
Ryo sat on the edge of his bed, still damp from the shower, a fresh set of clothes clinging to his skin. The air in the room felt heavier than before, despite the overwhelming scent of bleach. The plastic bags were gone—hidden, sealed away—but the memory of what lay inside them still lingered, coiled around his thoughts like a snake.
His gaze drifted to the gaming console resting beside his pillow. The thing was ancient, its casing cracked, its buttons worn smooth from years of use. He picked it up, feeling the familiar weight settle in his hands.
He new this was a stupid. But he needed a distraction.
Ryo's fingers hovered over the console, the smooth surface reflecting the dim light of his room. The device was new—sleek, modern, nothing like the battered second-hand junk he had owned in the past. The weight of it in his hands felt grounding, familiar, even as his mind churned with everything that had happened.
His library of games flickered on the screen, a curated collection of dating sims.
That was all he played.
He had never been interested in FPS games or sprawling RPGs. No power fantasies, no grand quests—just stories about people, about connections, about stepping into another life and being someone else for a while.
And right now, he needed that.
His thumb moved almost on instinct, selecting the one he played the most.
"Golden Desire."
A high-end, mature dating sim set in a world of wealth and indulgence, where the protagonist—a handsome, sophisticated, middle-aged man—navigated an intricate web of romance, power, and fleeting pleasures. It was indulgent, self-assured, an escape into a life where everything was polished and perfect.
The screen shimmered, and the room melted away.
When the world stabilized, Ryo was no longer himself.
He was sitting in a dimly lit lounge bar, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne. The leather seat beneath him was soft, the glass in his hand filled with aged bourbon.
In the mirror behind the counter, he saw his reflection—or rather, the reflection of the man he had become.
Silver-streaked black hair, sharp features, a perfectly tailored suit that fit like a second skin. A man of means, of experience. Someone confident, self-assured—everything Ryo wasn't.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting his cufflinks as he took in the scene.
A woman approached, her silhouette sleek and elegant against the dim glow of the bar. One of many potential lovers in this world.
"Drinking alone?" she asked, her voice smooth, teasing.
Ryo turned, offering her a slow, practiced smile.
"For now," he murmured.
This world was scripted, but it felt real in all the ways that mattered. And right now, that was enough.