"Look, Mommy! It's Prime again!"
The child's eyes lit up as the screen blazed with color. His favorite hero was in the middle of an A-rank dungeon battle—blades clashing, monsters roaring, and explosions lighting up the cave-like arena.
Bang! Bash! Boom!
The living room flickered with the screen's light, reflecting the chaos in the child's awestruck gaze.
He was only ten, but to him, there was no one greater than PRIME—the number one hero on Planet X.
The titan of a man stood tall on screen, muscles rippling, cape trailing behind him like thunderclouds. His armor glowed with gold and white energy, and he landed with a quake that shook the whole dungeon.
Arms crossed. Chin lifted. Unstoppable.
"I wanna be just like Prime when I grow up!" the boy shouted, fist raised in the air.
His mother smiled gently as she folded laundry beside him. "It's a dangerous job, honey."
"But I'm gonna get my pulse soon," he said proudly. "Just wait, Mom. When I awaken, I'll protect you. Like Prime does!"
She looked at him quietly for a moment, her smile softening. She had awakened her pulse years ago. So had his father, before… well, before the incident.
The boy didn't know it, but everyone expected it. With both parents awakened, it was only natural he'd awaken early. In fact, no one would be surprised if he awakened tomorrow.
Ten years later.
FAP
FAP
FAP..
The teenage boy sat transfixed before his glowing screen, the flickering light casting shadows across his rapt face. The video title read: "Lady Justice Clears B-Rank Dungeon - 4K First-Person View." His fingers hovered near the keyboard, ready to pause at any moment.
On screen, the heroine known as Lady Justice swung her massive punches with practiced ease, dispatching another monstrous foe.
Lady Justice wasn't built to be subtle—she was built to stop hearts, break bones, and leave both heroes and villains trembling.
Her suit was a skin-tight marvel of engineered fabric, white as purity, but stretched tight enough to leave no illusions. The high-gloss material clung to every sculpted curve like a lover's hand, smooth over her toned thighs, taut over her hips, and scandalously low across her chest—where a deep, oval cutout framed the swell of her breasts with unapologetic boldness. It didn't just show skin—it dared you to stare.
Her crimson cape draped from one shoulder, pinned by a golden clasp that glittered like temptation, fluttering behind her with theatrical flair. The effect? Divine. Dangerous. Deliciously distracting.
A wide red belt hugged her waist, highlighting the hourglass curve of her body and pulling the eye lower—down to the impossibly high-cut sides of her bodysuit, baring her hips with sinful confidence. Every step she took, her thighs rippled with strength, framed by long, dark gloves and thigh-high boots that gleamed like patent leather.
She moved with predatory grace, and every inch of her outfit said the same thing:
I am power. I am punishment. And I know exactly what you're thinking.
And if a villain's gaze lingered too long?
She smiled.
Then hit them hard enough to forget their own name.
Fap
Fap
Fap
More aggressively
Fap. Fap. Fap.
The sounds of frantic motion echoed in the dimly lit room, drowned only by the glow of the screen where Lady Justice fought with wild elegance.
She was a vision of strength and sensuality—her body sheened with sweat under the harsh lights of the dungeon. Every punch she threw caused her generous curves to bounce with kinetic beauty. Her suit clung to her like a second skin, torn slightly at the thigh from the last hit, exposing just enough to make his breath catch.
He leaned closer, eyes locked on the screen as she drove her elbow into the creature's face—likely B-rank. As the beast fell, Lady Justice exhaled, skin glistening. She swiped her palm slowly across her toned thigh, then up her side, wiping the sweat with a cloth. When she finally dabbed at the deep cleft between her breasts—lingering there—she looked up at the camera and whispered with a soft smile, "We're almost done here."
To him, it felt like she was speaking directly to him.
"I-I'm almost done too, Lady Justice…" he murmured, voice trembling, body tense. Blood surged downward as instinct and fantasy blurred.
Then came the moment—The action on screen reached its climax as a monstrous backhand sent the heroine crashing into a pile of rubble. The camera caught her at the perfect angle: face down, backside arched, the view utterly sinful.
He slammed the pause button.
"…Bless you, camera guy," he muttered, adjusting the zoom with shaking fingers. His heart pounded as he slipped into that dazed trance—the zone where the screen was all that mattered.
Knock. Knock.
A voice called through the door. "Brooo? Time for me to clean your room—coming in!"
His soul left his body.
"What the hell, man?! Don't come in! Don't—!"
"Totally ruined my concentration!!"
The voice still came from behind the door, unfazed.
"Concentration? What do you mean?"
He groaned, slamming his palm against the desk. "You ruined my focus, dude! Why'd you have to start with my room?"
The door creaked open just a crack.
"Don't open the freaking door, Iwaizumi!" he shouted, voice cracking with panic. "Start with Grandma's room or something!"
"Alright, alright—chill," Iwaizumi muttered. "No need to freak out… but what's with that smell"
"—"
The door shut with a soft thud, finally giving him peace. The teen slumped back into his chair like the life had drained from him.
But Iwaizumi now had a basket of laundry in hand, now heading toward the next room down the hall.
He pushed open the door with his hip.
"Hey, Mrs Anna. I finally got your bedroom cleaned—"
"Shut up," came the immediate reply from within.
He set the basket down.
"I changed the sheets too."
"Shut up."
His jaw twitched slightly. Smile intact.
"I tossed the old ones into the wash."
"Shut up, how many times do I have to say it?"
He sighed through his teeth and didn't respond. Just stood there, arms by his side. Her skeletal figure curled on the couch like a dying spider.
"Accidents happen, okay?" he said, almost kindly. "No need to stress over what happened earlier."
"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up." She barked like a broken alarm clock.
"I'm hungry," she hissed. "Get me some food now."
His smile cracked.
"Okay, Mrs Anna. If you ask me nicely, I can get you—"
"Give me some food."she spat on the ground in disgust.
He didn't blink. Just turned to walk to the kitchen.
He kicked open the door with his hip, holding a tray of eggs, toast, and juice.
"I brought your food," he said, carefully placing the tray in front of her. "Eggs. Toast. Orange juice. Just how you—"
"Where's the butter?" she snapped.
"I didn't think you'd want—"
"You didn't think? That's your problem. Never thinking. No wonder your mother …..."
His hand twitched.
Mrs Anna smiled like a blade. "Pathetic. Look at you. Built like a mop and just as useful."
Then, without breaking eye contact, she reared back and hocked a wad of spit straight onto the eggs.
He didn't move. Just stared at the sizzling plate.
"Alright," he said softly.
He reached forward to take it away.
But she moved faster.
Her old knuckles cracked as she clenched her fist and swung—just missing his jaw.
"Don't touch my damn food!" she barked, now fully standing. "You think I'm some weak old hag you can boss around?"
He instinctively backed up a step. She followed, arms raised like she was ready to throw down in the middle of the living room.
"I've had enough of your paid fake smile!" she snapped. "Every day you come in here, acting like you're doing me a favor—"
He caught her wrist mid-swing, voice low and calm. Too calm.
"Mrs Anna," he said tightly. "Swing again, and I promise—you'll lose."
She yanked her arm back with a sneer. "Go on. Hit me. I've been hit harder during my dungeon days."
"Yeah? Then maybe you'll feel this one."
She bared her teeth. "You're nothing."
He didn't hit her.
Didn't have to.
Instead, he lifted the tray with the food and gave her a little playful feint with it. Just enough to annoy her.
But fate had other plans.
His sock snagged on the rug.
Time slowed.
The tray launched into the air like it was spring-loaded—juice spinning, eggs pirouetting.
And his head?
Directly into Miss Anna's face.
CRACK.
A dull, meaty thud echoed through the room. The toast ricocheted off the wall. He collapsed onto the carpet in a groaning heap, clutching his head.
She didn't groan.
She didn't curse.
She didn't even mutter her usual "Shut the hell up."
She just… slumped.
Unmoving.
"Mrs Anna…?" he wheezed from the floor. "Uh… you good?"
No answer.
Panic edged into his voice. "Mrs Anna?!"
Still nothing.
He scrambled over, checked her pulse—still breathing. Just out cold.
One bony arm lay limp. A slipper dangled half-off her foot like it, too, had given up on life.
His face turned pale.
"Her family's gonna murder me when she wakes up."
He glanced at the scattered breakfast, then at her. Then at the juice sliding slowly down the curtain like it was mourning the mess.
With a long, suffering sigh, he collapsed back beside her, staring at the ceiling.
"Why does this always happen to me?"