I never thought I'd die at a desk. But here I am, clutching my chest, trying not to choke on the bitter taste of failure and cheap coffee. My name's Ren Sato. Twenty-seven years old. Data analyst at a faceless corporation that treats me like a number with a pulse. Monday morning, 8:17 AM. Same cubicle, same fluorescent hell-light buzzing overhead. The kind of place where dreams come to die without struggle. I stare at the endless rows of spreadsheets, my eyes aching. The numbers blur together like some cruel joke I'm too tired to laugh at. My back screams after hours of slouching, pretending like this is a life worth living. My phone buzzes. It's my sister again.
"Come home for the holidays" she says.
I don't reply. What's the point? The last thing I want is to pretend I'm okay with family right now. Then, out of nowhere, a stabbing pain rips through my chest. Sharp, unforgiving. My breath catches, vision blurs. I clutch my shirt like it's the only thing tethering me to reality. No time to scream. No time to regret.
I black out.
When I come to, it's like waking from a nightmare into another nightmare altogether. Damp, cold, the smell of mold and rust filling my nostrils. I try to move, anything, but there's nothing. No arms. No legs. No me. I'm lying flat on a hard surface. I lift my... what? Lid? Chest cover? Panic floods in. I am a mimic. A chest-shaped monster waiting in the dark. My first kill is out there. I can feel it, the hunger, raw and pulsing like a live wire inside me. This isn't just survival anymore. It's a craving that gnaws at my soul. The dungeon's shadows stretch around me, thick and alive. I don't know how I got here. I don't know why.
All I know is I'm not human anymore.