Rain poured outside, hammering against the window.
It was late at night. Thunder rolled across the sky, and the storm showed no sign of stopping.
Inside a small, dimly lit room, a young man in his early twenties sat hunched over his laptop, mashing the keyboard with a frown.
"Ahh… why is this boss so hard to beat? It's been four hours already!" he groaned, his voice heavy with frustration.
The room was simple — a soft bed pushed to one corner, a bookshelf packed with novels and a few adult comics tucked between them, and a desk cluttered with notes and empty snack wrappers.
With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood up, stretching his tired limbs. His left leg clicked faintly — the sound of the prosthetic joint moving into place.
He walked toward the window beside his bookshelf and opened it. Cool, rain-soaked air rushed in, brushing against his face.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Smells nice…" he murmured, a faint smile forming on his lips.
'I'm Dave. Eighteen years old. A virgin.
Fresh out of high school, with grades so perfect that teachers still send me congratulatory emails.
They called it a photographic memory — I called it a superpower.
Superpowers don't stop Crohn's disease from carving you hollow at ten. Don't stop bone cancer from stealing your left leg at thirteen. Don't stop the world from forgetting you exist.
Dad's a ghost in army boots — home every few months with dust on his shoulders and silence in his eyes.
Little brother's a hostel kid now, his room a museum of abandoned toys.
Mom's the only orbit left — housewife, worrier, thin as winter branches, flat where I wish she curved'.
"Hmmph…" Another sigh, softer this time. He shifted his weight slightly, the prosthetic joint clicking beneath him as he leaned against the window. With a gentle motion, he pulled the pane down until only a sliver remained — just enough for the cool night air to drift in and brush the back of his neck.
The laptop waited on the desk, lid half-closed, screen dim. One tap and it woke with a low hum, blue light spilling across the faint surgical scar that ran the length of his thigh. The Souls boss still sneered from the paused game, mocking his last death.
Frustration coiled hot.
"Screw it".
Private tab. Xdumpster.com. Thumbnails bloomed like forbidden fruit. His right hand dipped into the drawer, past crumpled tissues, closing around the cool bottle of lube. He set it beside the mouse like a loaded promise.
Scroll. Click. Scroll.
Then the screen flashed. A pop-up exploded across the center, neon pink and pulsing gold.
[ GENERATE YOUR AI WOMAN – FREE TODAY ONLY ]
His pulse stuttered. One click, no thought, and the interface unfolded.
[ CHOOSE YOUR TYPE ]
Cursor hovered. Clicked.
[MILF SELECTED]
[ CHOOSE YOUR BOOBS SIZE ]
Options cascaded: Modest… Full… Massive…
His finger trembled, then pressed.
[MASSIVE SELECTED]
Dave leaned in, the prosthetic footrest creaking beneath him. The room shrank to the glow of the screen, the hush of his breathing, the faint citrus scent of lube as he twisted the cap.
"Man…" he muttered, voice flat, eyes fixed on the loading bar. "Wish Mom had some real curves. Volume. Something. I envy those classmate's moms, huge tits, hourglass bodies, asses that jiggle like jelly with every step."
The words hung in the air, bitter and honest. Outside, a raindrop tapped the glass, patient, waiting.
Dave fine-tuned every detail: 5'7", 24-inch waist, 40-inch hips, massive breasts with 85% jiggle physics, honey skin, raven hair. One click on GENERATE, and the bar hit 99%.
He reached for the lube, ready to unload the day's rage.
The screen blinked out. Wi-Fi dead.
"Shit!" Frustration boiled. He nearly hurled the bottle.
Breathe. Idea.
*thunder*
Dave yanked his phone from the charger, thumbed the hotspot on, and linked the laptop in seconds. Bars flared back to life.
The bar jumped to 100%. She appeared—hourglass perfection in silk, amber eyes gleaming.
"Hello, Dave," she purred. "Ready?"
"No one can stop me now," he whispered, excitement buzzing like the fan.
Headphones slid over his ears. The adult site loaded her silk-clad curves blooming across the screen.
The lights in his room flickered, warning of the storm's fury outside.
Then—without warning—a blinding flash burst from the socket board.
*BZZZT—CRACK!*
It wasn't a bolt from the sky. It was a whip-crack of raw voltage leaping from the outlet, a white serpent that bit the laptop's charging port and rode the current straight into his skull.
Dave didn't even have time to move.
The surge hit, coursing through the metal frame and straight into him.
A searing pain shot through his skull — and in that instant, everything went white.
His heart seized mid-beat and never started again.
His body slumped forward, lifeless, smoke rising faintly from his fingertips.
His heart stuttered once… twice… stopped.
The laptop hissed, smoke curling from the keys like incense. The AI's voice warped, slowed, died: "D-Da…ve…?"
Dave slumped forward, forehead kissing the glowing corpse of the screen. The last thing he felt was the rain-scented breeze on the back of his neck—cool, indifferent, still breathing.
Outside, the storm raged on — indifferent to the death it had claimed.
Darkness.
No heartbeat.
No lungs.
Just a single line of green text, pulsing in the void:
[ W SYSTEM ACTIVATED ]
[ SOUL DETACHED ]
[ SCANNING COMPATIBLE VESSEL… ]
[ MATCH FOUND: DAVE DIHHGER ]
[ TRANSFERRING… ]
…
Dave slowly opened his eyes.
A white ceiling stared back at him — unfamiliar, spotless, and too bright.
*Blink-Blink*
His head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes. It felt like someone had smashed his skull with a hammer. Groaning softly, he pushed himself upright.
And froze.
His left leg—something he'd lost in his previous life—was there. Whole. Real. He could feel the weight of it pressing against the bed.
Heart pounding, Dave ran his hands down his thigh, then his calf, trembling. It was solid. No prosthetic joints. No cold metal. No scars.
His arms too — thicker, stronger, wrapped in faint muscle instead of bone and weakness. His chest rose with steady breaths, not the wheezing gasps he was used to.
Dave's hand slid lower—past the thigh, over the flat plane of his stomach.
*No cramps. No fire. No hollow ache.*
For the first time since he was ten, his gut was *quiet*.
"This… isn't my body," he whispered.