I'm not special.
That's the first thing you should know about me.
I'm Kaito Yamada, twenty-one years old, third-year Computer Science student at a university I'm pretty sure only accepted me because they needed to fill their quota.
My grades are mediocre, my social life is nonexistent, and my most notable achievement is managing to go an entire semester without talking to anyone except when absolutely necessary.
Tonight is a Thursday, which means nothing special. Just another night in my small apartment, the glow of my monitor the only light in the room.
The clock in the corner of my screen reads 2:47 AM. I should probably sleep. I have a morning class tomorrow.
I don't sleep.
Instead, I'm grinding through the final boss of Demon's Requiem, a game I've been stuck on for three days.
My character—a female mage I spent way too long customizing to have the perfect chest size and the shortest possible skirt—dodges left as the boss unleashes another pattern I've memorized.
Fireball. Ice lance. Dodge right. The camera angle shifts and I get a nice view up her skirt for a split second.
Hehehe
Yeah, I'm that kind of guy.
Attack. Heal. The boss's health bar ticks down. 10%. 5%.
My heart's actually racing.
Stupid, right? It's just a game. But when you've failed this many times, when you've seen that "YOU DIED" screen so many times it's burned into your retinas, the potential victory feels real.
2%. 1%.
The boss collapses.
The victory theme plays.
Gold and experience points rain across my screen, and my mage does a victory pose that makes her chest bounce.
I definitely chose the right character model.
"Finally," I mutter to the empty room. "Fuck. Finally."
I lean back in my chair, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
It's almost three in the morning.
I've been playing for six hours straight. My back hurts, my eyes are dry, and I'm pretty sure I forgot to eat dinner again.
I should feel accomplished.
Mostly, I just feel tired.
I shut down my PC and stumble to my bed, not even bothering to change out of my hoodie and sweatpants.
Sleep takes me immediately, dreamless and heavy.
The alarm screams at 7:30 AM.
I slap it off and stare at my ceiling for a solid five minutes, contemplating whether skipping class is worth the risk.
It's Professor Nakamura's Algorithms lecture. He doesn't take attendance, but he's one of those professors who makes surprise quizzes just to punish people who don't show up.
I drag myself out of bed.
The morning routine is automatic: bathroom, cold water on face, brush teeth, throw on clean-ish clothes—another hoodie, jeans, my beat-up sneakers.
I grab my bag, check that my laptop and charger are inside, and head out.
The train is packed. I squeeze into a corner and immediately notice her.
There's a girl standing near the door, probably around my age.
She's wearing the same university uniform that marks her as a student—white blouse, navy skirt.
The skirt is regulation length, but the way she's holding the overhead rail makes her blouse pull tight across her chest.
She's pretty. Really pretty. Long black hair, delicate features, and a figure that the uniform definitely doesn't hide.
I'm staring.
I know I'm staring, but I can't help it.
My eyes trace down from her face to her neck, to the way her blouse buttons strain slightly, to the curve of her waist, to her legs. Really nice legs.
She shifts her weight and I catch a glimpse of her thighs when her skirt rides up slightly.
My face feels hot.
This is pathetic. I'm pathetic.
A twenty-one-year-old virgin staring at a girl on a train like some creep. But I don't stop looking.
She glances in my direction.
I immediately whip my head around to look at my phone, heart pounding like I've been caught committing a crime.
The train ride feels longer than usual.
When we reach my stop, I shuffle out with the crowd, pretty sure my face is still red.
University is the same as it always is.
I sit in the back of the lecture hall, laptop open, pretending to take notes while actually browsing gaming forums.
Professor Nakamura drones on about optimization algorithms.
I catch maybe thirty percent of what he's saying.
During the break, I notice a group of girls sitting a few rows ahead.
There are three of them, chatting and laughing about something on one of their phones.
The one in the middle catches my attention immediately.
She's gorgeous—like, unreasonably gorgeous.
Wavy brown hair, bright eyes, and she's wearing a tight sweater that hugs every curve.
When she laughs, she tosses her hair back and I can see the elegant line of her neck, the way her sweater stretches across her chest.
I'm staring again.
One of her friends says something and she leans forward to look at the phone, giving me a perfect view of her cleavage.
Jesus Christ.
I shift in my seat, adjusting my laptop to cover my lap, and force myself to look back at my screen. My face is burning. I'm definitely going to hell.
But five minutes later, I'm looking again.
She stands up to stretch, arching her back slightly, and I get a full view of her figure—the curve of her breasts, her slim waist, the way her jeans sit low on her hips.
I spend the rest of the lecture trying not to stare and failing miserably.
When class ends, I watch her walk out with her friends. The way she moves, the sway of her hips—
Yeah. I'm definitely a pervert.
Lunch is a convenience store bento eaten alone on a bench outside.
I pull out my phone and scroll through social media, but I end up on Instagram, looking at photos of girls from my university.
Not anyone I know personally—just random cute girls whose profiles are public.
There's one girl who posts a lot of selfies. Each one shows off a different outfit, a different angle.
She knows exactly what she's doing. Low-cut tops, poses that emphasize her figure. I scroll through her feed, saving a few photos to my phone.
I'm absolutely going to hell.
I finish my bento and head to my next class, thoughts already drifting to what I'll do when I get home.
By the time I get home, it's nearly 5 PM. The apartment greets me with silence. I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes, and go straight to my desk.
My PC hums to life.
First things first: I open my "homework" folder. It's not actually homework. It's organized into subfolders with names like "2D" and "3D" and "Cosplay." I spend about twenty minutes browsing, adding a few new images to my collection.
Then I feel guilty and vaguely pathetic, so I close the folder and actually check my usual sites: gaming forums, a couple of Discord servers I lurk in but rarely post to, YouTube for new playthroughs.
And that's when I see it.
A thread on one of the more obscure forums I visit, the kind where people post about weird indie games and obscure Japanese imports. The title catches my eye:
"CHALLENGE: Can You Beat the Unbeatable Game? 99% Fail Rate."