#isekai reader

•••

the memory was a shard of glass in your gut. he’d stood right there, by the door, his bag slung over one shoulder, his face — the face you loved with a terrifying, all-consuming ferocity — etched with a worry that wasn’t for you.

“it’s emcee.” he’d said, voice tight, not meeting your eyes. he’d shown you the letter, the crisp, anonymous paper that felt like poison in your hands. threatening black ink: we will take what you love most. “they’re targeting her. this has ever’s fingerprints all over it. i have to go. she’s in linkon, all alone. you understand, right?”

you’d understood, of course. you’d understood with a clarity that shattered something fundamental inside you. emcee, his childhood friend, his first love, the sun around which his universe had once orbited. the girl you’d somehow, miraculously, momentarily eclipsed.

you, the isekai’d anomaly, the unexpected variable who’d charmed the hero away from the destined heroine.

or so you’d foolishly believed.

“caleb.” you’d whispered, your hand finding his, your touch pleading. “the threat… it could be ambiguous. what if it’s…?”

what if it’s me? the words died in your throat, too pathetic, too needy to voice.

he’d squeezed your hand, but it was an absent gesture, his mind already a hundred miles away in linkon, at emcee’s side. “don’t be silly. ever is after her unique evol, her potential. they’ve wanted her for years. you’re not...”

not important.

 “i’ll be back as soon as this is sorted.”

he’d kissed your forehead. a kiss of duty, of distraction. not the deep, desperate kisses that used to leave you breathless against this very door. then he was gone, the click of the latch sounding like the snap of a bone.

•••

the first week was worry. the second, a slow-burning anxiety. the third… the third was the quiet, suffocating descent of doubt. your calls became less frequent, his answers clipped, always with her in the background. you could hear her laugh sometimes, bright and familiar, a sound that used to bring you joy but now felt like a twist of the knife.

“hey, can’t talk long.” he’d say, voice lowered, a tinge of irritation in his tone. “she’s… she’s really scared. i have to be here for her.”

who’s being here for me? you’d scream inside your own mind as you hummed and hung up the call.

the apartment, once a cozy nest of shared moments, now felt like a museum of your own naivety. you knew you had no place in caleb’s life. heck, you had no place in this world, but something gave you hope.

that hope seemed to have been misplaced.

•••

you were brushing your teeth, staring at your own hollow-eyed reflection in the bathroom mirror, when the lights flickered and died. not just yours — the entire building plunged into an unnatural, swallowing darkness.

the hum of the city outside vanished, replaced by a silence so profound it rang in your ears.

your heart jumped into your throat. power surge, you tried to tell yourself. city grid issue.

but the air changed.

it grew cold, sterile, smelling of antiseptic and something dangerous — something like charged metal, like the air before a lightning strike. you stumbled out of the bathroom, your bare feet cold on the floorboards.

a soft, blue light emanated from your living room. not the warm glow of a screen, but a cold, clinical luminescence. two figures stood there, clad in sleek, black uniforms with a single, stark insignia on their chests: ever.

your breath hitched, frozen in your lungs.

“subject located.” one of them stated, the voice filtered, genderless, and devoid of any inflection. it was the sound of a machine confirming a command.

a whimper escaped your lips, dry and pathetic. you took a stumbling step back, your shoulder hitting the doorframe of the bathroom. the cold of the wood seeped through your thin sleep shirt.

they’re here for me.

the realization didn’t dawn; it detonated.

it wasn’t a suspicion anymore. it was a truth, sharp and jagged, carving out your insides. the letter, the threat... caleb had assumed. he had decided. he had looked at you, heard your unspoken fear, and dismissed it with a distracted kiss.

he had deemed emcee’s potential, her history, her place in this world’s narrative, more worthy of protection than your entire existence.

grief, black and tar-like, surged up your throat, mingling with the unpleasant taste of panic. it wasn’t just the fear of the agents, of the unknown horrors ever represented. it was the utter, soul-crushing betrayal. he wasn’t here. he was in another city, playing guardian to another, while the real threat slithered through the darkness he’d left you in.

you had been assessed and found lacking.

“stay back!” you screamed, the sound raw and ragged in the consuming quiet. you grabbed the first thing your hands found — a heavy ceramic mug from the sink, a stupid gift you’d bought together at a street fair.

you hurled it.

it was a laughable act of defiance. one agent simply shifted their head, and the mug shattered against the wall beside them, exploding into useless, dusty shards. the sound was obscenely loud.

“do not resist.” the same voice droned. “compliance minimizes discomfort.”

discomfort. the word was so chillingly clinical it snapped something inside you. pure, animal fear took over, burning away the grief for a single moment.

you turned and ran.

not towards the front door — they were between you and it. you fled deeper into the apartment, into the bedroom. a dead end. your mind was a frantic, skittering thing.

the window?

the fire escape!

you’d never used it, always complaining it was rusted shut.

you fumbled with the latch, your fingers slick with cold sweat, tearing a nail down. behind you, you heard the soft, synchronized tread of their boots on the floorboards. no urgency. they had all the time in the world.

“come on, come on!” you sobbed, yanking at the stubborn metal. it gave with a shriek of protesting iron, and the wet night air blasted in, the misty rain kissing your feverish skin. you scrambled forth, but only one leg made it out.

a strong arm wrapped itself around you, dragging you back in with force.

“ahh!”

as you turned, a third figure melted from the deeper shadow of the bedroom doorway. you hadn’t seen them enter. this one was taller, stronger, their presence a deeper chill. they moved with a predator’s grace, while the other two stood sentinel, blocking your retreat back inside.

“caleb…” you whispered, the name a broken prayer, a curse, a plea. it was all you had left. his name was the anchor to this world, to your heart, and he had let it go.

a broken sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped you. “he didn’t even consider it.” you breathed, more to yourself than to them. the rain mixed with the hot tears finally spilling over your cheeks. “he left me here for you.”

they closed the final distance. you swung a fist, weak, desperate, but they caught your wrist with an effortless, gloved hand. the grip was like iron, cold and unfeeling. with their other hand, they produced a small, white cloth.

the smell hit you before the cloth did — a sickly-sweet, chemical odor that clawed at the back of your throat. chloroform.

the last of your strength fled, replaced by a paralyzing horror. this was it. not a battle, not a capture, but an erasure. you would disappear from this apartment, from skyhaven, from caleb’s world, and he wouldn’t even know where to look.

he’d been searching the wrong city, protecting the wrong person.

 “sleep now.”

•••

consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a violent, chemical sunrise behind your eyelids. your head throbbed, a sickening drumbeat against the inside of your skull. the sweet, cloying scent of the chloroform still lingered in your sinuses, but it was now undercut by something sharper, cleaner, and utterly repulsive — the antiseptic sting of a sterile environment.

you tried to move, and the world snapped into a brutal, fluorescent focus.

you were upright, strapped to a cold, metallic chair. thick, padded restraints bit into your wrists, your ankles, your torso, holding you in a cruel parody of an embrace. panic, cold and immediate, lanced through the lingering fog. you gasped, the sound loud in the unnerving quiet, and strained against the bindings.

they didn’t give an inch, only creaked softly, a taunt in industrial polymer.

your eyes darted, taking in the nightmare.

the room was a blinding, seamless white — walls, floor, ceiling — a void with no shadows, no corners to hide in. it felt less like a room and more like the inside of a giant, sterile egg. the only features were the swarm of medical equipment encircling you like mechanical vultures. silvery robotic arms, tipped with needles, probes, and sinister-looking clamps, were frozen in place, poised. monitors with undulating green lines and cryptic numerical readouts glowed softly. wires snaked from panels in the floor to nodes stuck to your temples, your chest, the inside of your wrists, their touch cold and alien.

where am i? the thought was a scream in the silent chamber. caleb. caleb, where are you?

but the name that had once been a talisman now felt like a boulder on your heart. the memory of his departure, the weeks of silence, the cold dismissal — it all came crashing back with the force of a physical blow.

he wasn’t coming.

he didn’t even know you were gone.

the singular door in the wall, also white and nearly invisible, hissed open.

a man in a pristine white lab coat stepped through. he was middle-aged, with thinning hair scraped neatly across his scalp and wire-rimmed glasses that reflected the room’s harsh light, hiding his eyes. he held a digital clipboard, a sleek tablet, and his fingers tapped against it with a rhythm that was both bored and precise.

he didn’t look at you at first, absorbed in his notes, as if you were just another piece of equipment in the room.

then he stopped, a few feet away, and lifted his gaze.

his eyes, when they finally met yours, were a flat, pale grey. devoid of empathy, curiosity, or even malice. they were the eyes of someone assessing a failed experiment.

“ah. subject is conscious.” he stated, his voice a dry, thin thing. “vitals are stable. elevated stress markers, of course. typical.”

“who are you?” you managed to croak out, your throat parched and raw. “what do you want with me?”

he ignored your questions, stepping closer. he reached out, not to you, but to a monitor beside your head. he adjusted a dial, and a fresh, sharp prick of pain lanced through the node at your temple. you flinched, a small, trapped sound escaping you.

“useless.” he murmured, more to his clipboard than to you. “a complete miscalculation.”

a spark of defiance, born from sheer terror, flickered in your chest. “let me go.”

this time, he looked at you. a slow, condescending smile stretched his thin lips. it was a horrible expression, devoid of any warmth.

“let you go?” he echoed, a laugh like rustling paper following the words. “and waste all the resources it took to pluck you from your dreary little apartment? the planning? the risk of deploying operatives for a null-value subject?” he shook his head, clicking his tongue.

“no, no. the waste isn’t in keeping you. the waste was in acquiring you in the first place.”

he leaned in, and you could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “you see, our intelligence — our very expensive, very precise intelligence — suggested you were a significant emotional variable for colonel xia. a leverage point. a weakness.” he snorted.

“imagine our surprise. imagine my professional embarrassment.”

your blood ran cold. “caleb…” you whispered.

“caleb.” the doctor mocked, his voice lifting to a falsetto of pathetic imitation. “oh, caleb, save me!” he dropped back into his own dry tone. “he doesn’t even know you’re here. our surveillance in linkon shows him quite… preoccupied. playing the devoted protector. buying coffee, standing guard outside a door, sharing cozy little meals. all for her. for emcee.”

each word was a needle, meticulously inserted. you could see it. you could see it with devastating clarity because you’d heard it in his distant voice on the phone. you’d felt it in his absence.

the doctor was just painting over the picture you’d already been bleeding onto for weeks.

“the plan...” the doctor continued, straightening up and resuming his tapping on the tablet. “was elegantly simple. snatch the beloved, watch the hero unravel, use his predictable, desperate attempts to rescue you to lure him into a trap. classic. effective.” he paused, his grey eyes locking onto yours with chilling finality. “it appears we snatched the wrong beloved.”

the air left your lungs in a slow, painful exhale. the room seemed to tilt. the monitors beeped a little faster, betraying your crumbling heart.

“he doesn’t love you.” the doctor said, not with cruelty, but with the utter certainty of a scientist stating a proven fact. “oh, he might have enjoyed your company. found you a pleasant distraction from his weighty, noble burdens. but love? his heart, his destiny, his purpose… it’s always been with emcee. anyone with two brain cells to rub together could see it. except you, apparently.”

tears welled, hot and shameful. you fought them, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. you wouldn’t cry in front of this man.

you wouldn’t.

“you were a placeholder.” he sneered. “a temporary distraction. you thought you could outshine a bond forged in childhood? with the way he is acting? how dumb can you be?”

dumb. naive. stupid.

the words echoed the toxic whispers that had haunted your darkest nights. he was giving voice to your deepest insecurities, the fear that had trailed you since the moment you woke up in this strange world — that you didn’t belong, that your happiness was borrowed, that you were living on stolen time.

“i love him.” you breathed, the confession torn from you, weak and pathetic.

“and what of it?” the doctor snapped, his feigned calm finally cracking into sharp irritation. “your love is irrelevant. it is a null data set. it changes nothing. it moves nothing. he is not coming. he is not looking. you are here, strapped to a chair, and he is there, holding her hand because she had a nightmare about the big bad ever.” he threw his hands up in a gesture of exasperation.

“do you comprehend the operational waste? the man-hours? i have budgets! i have timelines! and i am now left with a useless,weeping subject who is of no value as bait and of only marginal interest!”

he took a step closer, looming over you. the sterile light glinted off his glasses, turning them into white, blinding orbs. “you are a mistake. a smudge on my otherwise impeccable record. and i do not tolerate mistakes.”

the verbal punishment began in earnest, cold, analytical, and designed to flay you open.

“the only thing you have succeeded at…” the doctor mused, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “is wasting my time. and for that, i can assure you, there will be consequences. if i can’t use you as bait, i might as well make you my extension.”

he turned and walked back towards the door. before he left, he glanced over his shoulder, his final words delivered with chilling, surgical precision.

“you will do the only thing you're good at — watch xia from afar.”

the door hissed shut behind him, leaving you alone in the blinding, silent white hell.

the sob that finally broke free was a ragged, ugly thing, muffled by the sterile air. you strained against the restraints until your muscles screamed and your wrists burned, but it was futile. the monitors beeped on, charting the catastrophic collapse of your heart rate, your spike in cortisol, your sheer, utter despair.

“c-caleb…”

the betrayal was a cold knife, twisted deep, not just by caleb, but by your own foolish heart. you had trusted. you had believed. you had loved with the desperate fervor of someone who knew, on some level, they were living a lie.

you were alone. you had always been alone. the love you’d clung to had been a mirage, and now you were stranded in the desert, with vultures circling overhead. as you stared into the featureless white void, the only thing left was the deafening, heart-shattering sound of your own love, echoing back at you as nothing more than a worthless, wasted sigh.

•••

the white void became your world. time lost all meaning, measured only in the hum of machines, the occasional, terrifying whir of a robotic arm calibrating itself, and the slow, cold drip of nutrients and sedatives through an iv line into your arm. you drifted in a haze of chemically-induced calm, punctuated by moments of sharp, lucid agony when the reality of your situation would crash over you anew.

days? weeks? it was impossible to tell.

the doctor returned, always with his tablet, always with that look of detached assessment. he never gave you a name. he was just the scientist in your mind, the architect of your silent hell.

one session began like the others. the hiss of the door, his soft-soled shoes on the seamless floor, the glare of his glasses.

“today, we check the repurposing.” he announced, his voice devoid of ceremony. two technicians in grey scrubs flanked him, their faces obscured by masks. “the initial surveillance chip is now in place. we will establish the connection to your neural pathways.”

you thrashed against the restraints, a raw scream tearing from your throat. “no! take it out!”

he didn't even flinch.

a nod to a technician, and a cold pad was pressed against your neck. a jolt, not of electricity, but of something deeper, a neural static that scrambled your thoughts into slurry. your body went limp, your screams dying into choked gurgles.

you were conscious, but trapped in a paralyzed shell.

you felt, rather than saw, the approach of the robotic arm. it moved with a smooth, insectile grace. a low whine filled your ears, a sound that vibrated in your teeth. a pinpoint of red light appeared on your neck, between your shoulders.

it was cold.

then, the pain.

it wasn't a pain of cutting or burning. it was an invasion. a feeling of something thin, impossibly hard, and icy being threaded through the bone of your skull, into the soft, wet universe of your mind. it was a violation so profound your psyche recoiled, shattering against the walls of your own skull. you couldn't scream. you could only watch from the prison of your own body as the monitors went wild.

the scientist observed the screens, nodding with approval. “neural pathways accepting the probe. good. begin the memory cataloging. we need to establish a baseline before we start editing her memories.”

editing.

the word echoed in the hollowed-out cavern of your mind.

the invasion shifted. the cold probe became a searchlight, spearing through the dark waters of your memories. you were forced to relive them, not as a participant, but as a spectator strapped to a chair.

the memories — mostly of you and caleb — played out, one after another, a beautiful, heartbreaking film of the happiest moments of your life. each one was dissected, labeled, and filed away by the icy presence in your head. it was the ultimate humiliation; to have your most precious love story treated as data points in a lab report.

then, the probe dug deeper.

past the memories of this world, past the moment you woke up in a skyhaven clinic with no identity and a head full of knowledge about a world that shouldn't exist.

“wait!”

it plunged into a deeper, older layer.

a flash of a different sky — blue, with a yellow sun, not skyhaven’s. the sound of laughter, a mother’s voice calling a name that wasn't the one you used here. the smell of rain on dry earth, of pages in a physical book. a cramped, cozy bedroom plastered with posters of bands that didn't exist here.

the soul-crushing weight of deadlines, the glow of a phone screen late at night, the comforting escape of a game — a specific game. characters moving on a screen. a story unfolding.

caleb. pixelated, handsome, heroic. text boxes of his dialogue you’d read a hundred times. your own hands on the screen, making choices, guiding him, loving him from a distance across an impossible void.

the probe hesitated.

the scientist, who had been monitoring the data stream with an expression of bored efficiency, suddenly stiffened. he leaned forward, his eyes widening behind his glasses. the flat grey was replaced by a spark of intense, voracious curiosity.

“what is this?” he murmured. he manipulated his tablet, commanding the probe to focus, to amplify.

the memories of your past life flooded the neural feed. your death — a stupid, mundane accident, a screech of tires, a blinding impact, then nothingness. then the waking up here, in the body of a stranger, with the haunting, joyous, terrifying knowledge that the fictional world you’d loved was now your reality, and the fictional man you’d loved was flesh and blood.

the probe withdrew.

the paralyzing field released you. you sagged in the chair, gasping, tears and sweat mingling on your face. the violation was total. they had seen everything. not just your life with caleb, but your true life.

your secret.

the scientist stared at you. for a long, silent moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the hum of the machines. then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. it wasn't the condescending smirk from before. this was something else — awed, hungry, and deeply, deeply unnerving.

“a trans-dimensional psychic imprint. a consciousness migration. or… simpler…” he took a step closer, his eyes raking over you as if you were a newly discovered, priceless fossil. “reincarnation. with full, conscious memory retention. from a reality where our world… where colonel xia… is fiction.”

he let out a low, incredulous laugh. “astounding. the implications… the metaphysical vectors alone…”

the fear in you curdled into something new, something even colder. he wasn't just interested in you as leverage anymore. you were a specimen.

he circled your chair, his mind racing, almost talking to himself. “this explains the anomalies.” he stopped in front of you, his gaze piercing. “you knew him. before you ever met him. you loved a story, a fantasy.”

the words were a physical blow. he was taking the most profound, terrifying, and beautiful truth of your existence and reducing it to a clinical pathology.

“you fell in love with a character.” he stated, his voice dripping with a newfound, grotesque pity. “and then you were dropped into his world, and you actually believed you could step into the narrative and change the ending. you thought you could replace the heroine.”

he threw his head back and laughed, a dry, crackling sound that echoed in the white room. “oh, this is too rich. the pathetic grandeur of it! to have the knowledge of a god — the script of his life — and to still fail so spectacularly!”

“stop it.” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“stop?” he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “why? i'm finally appreciating your true value. you're not a worthless variable. you're a case study in futility. you knew every beat of his story, every trauma that shaped him, every line of dialogue that would make him open up. you had the ultimate cheat sheet. and yet…” he gestured broadly at the room, at your restraints.

“here you are. he still chose her. he still left you. your foreknowledge was worthless. your love, born from pixels and text, was no match for the gravitational pull of his code.”

each sentence was a masterfully aimed dagger, finding every hidden wound of insecurity you’d ever harbored. the fear that your love was somehow less legitimate because it began in another world. the terror that you were just an obsessed fan who got lucky.

he was weaponizing your origin story.

“you're wrong.” you choked out, but the conviction was gone.

his words had the ring of terrible truth.

“am i?” he straightened up, tapping his tablet.

a screen flickered to life on the wall.

it was a live surveillance feed, grainy but clear. a cozy linkon apartment. caleb was there, moving around a kitchen. he was smiling, a soft, easy smile you hadn't seen in months. he handed a cup of tea to emcee, who was curled on a sofa, wrapped in a blanket. she took it, her face glowing with gratitude and something more intimate. he sat beside her, not touching, but his entire body was angled toward her, a fortress of protection and care.

you couldn't look away. it was the confirmation of every nightmare.

then the screen changed to the lab… from your perspective.

“the live feed from your ocular implant is already coming in clearly too.” the scientist said conversationally. “but we need to ensure you don't… interfere. or break. so, we'll be modifying the recent memories. a few tweaks. softening the edges of your… volition. making you more accepting of your new role as our passive observer.”

horror, deeper than any you had felt yet, froze your veins. they weren't just going to watch through you. they were going to rewrite you. to make you a willing vessel.

“no… please… you can't…”

“i can.” he said simply. “but this… this changes things.” he paced again, the wheels turning. “a consciousness that has already crossed the void of death… it's uniquely malleable. resilient in one way, fragile in another. i almost wish to keep you here forever.”

“but i cant.” he stopped and looked at you, his expression shifting to one of chilling calculation. “or…?”

his eyes suddenly shone with a lightning-like luminescence, frightening and powerful.

“i mock you for your pathetic fantasy.” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “but what if i could make it real? not the messy, painful, rejecting reality you currently endure. but the fantasy you dreamed of when you stared at that screen.”

your breath hitched. a treacherous, desperate spark ignited in the wasteland of your heart.

a spark that shouldn’t be there.

“what… what are you saying?”

“i'm saying your knowledge of him is a database of unparalleled depth. you have it all now. every moment that made you love him. but your consciousness — your ego, your fears, your pathetic grief — it's what's failing you. it's what causes him to pull away. your human weakness, your need, your… lack of code.”

he moved to a console and brought up a schematic. it was a brain, overlaid with a glittering, synthetic neural network.

“we can integrate a code. we can build a new behavioral matrix for you. one that is optimized. one that knows exactly what to say, when to touch, how to be perfect. not a desperate, love-starved transplant from another world, but the ideal companion. programmed with the love you feel, but stripped of the neediness that repels him.”

don’t listen to him.

he turned back to you, his eyes gleaming. “we can make caleb xia love you. truly, devotedly, unconditionally. not by changing him, but by perfecting you.”

don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t–

the offer hung in the sterile air, a glittering, poisoned apple. it was everything you had ever wanted. the end of the heartache. the certainty of his love. to have the fantasy made flesh.

but the price…

“it would require a gradual integration.” he continued, his voice hypnotic. “we'd start small. editing your emotional responses to be less… volatile. then, layer by layer, we'd replace your organic consciousness with the synthetic matrix. you'd still be you… in a sense. your love for him would remain, purified and amplified. you would become efficient. perfect. and he would love you for it.”

he would?

he saw the conflict tearing you apart — the desperate, dying hope warring with the last shreds of your self.

“think of it.” he whispered. “no more waiting by the phone. no more watching him choose her. no more feeling like a ghost in your own life. you would become the heroine of your own story at last. all it costs is the part of you that is… broken.”

you looked back at the screen, the one that flickered back to linkon city. caleb was laughing now at something emcee said, his face alight with a joy that had once been yours. the betrayal was a fresh wound, salted by the scientist's words.

you are broken. your love is flawed. you are not enough.

a deep, utter loneliness swallowed you. the kind that screamed for relief at any cost. the fantasy the scientist painted… it was a siren song in the crushing silence of your despair.

to be loved by caleb. to have him look at you the way he looked at her on that screen. it was the dream that had dragged you across the gap between worlds.

your voice, when it finally came, was a broken defeat, barely audible.

“...would it hurt?”

the scientist's smile was gentle, almost kind. it was the most terrifying expression you had ever seen.

“only at first.” he said. “and then… peace. and love. real love. the kind that lasts.”

you could have him. you could have the happy ending. all you had to do was surrender. to let them erase the wounded, betrayed, human part and replace it with something flawless and machine-made.

the tears that fell now were not just of grief, but of a profound, soul-crushing temptation. the anguished choice between a painful, real self destined for heartbreak, and a perfect, artificial one destined for love.

“don’t you want him to love you?”

in the blinding white room, stripped of everything, you hovered on the edge of annihilation, seduced by the very devil who had orchestrated your ruin. the only sound was the steady, rhythmic beep of the monitor tracking the vital signs of the person you were, and the person they promised you could become.

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

And make the terrible mistake of pretending to be hurt, ending up on the doorsteps to your favorite character’s home. At first — you were ecstatic! spending days to literal months at his manor getting to……. ‘know’ him. Enjoying nightly suppers and evening walks with him by your side. He thinks of you as weird and peculiar while you thought of it as a growing romance, dreaming about ‘candlelit dinners’ where he professes his love for you.

Because there was no electricity yet.

All you wanted was to be close to him, your favorite character— from the very game you’ve played for months and years on end. Saving up to pull for his character banner without fail everytime he shows up in the gacha, spending whatever money you had left to purchase HIS limited skins because you love him that much!

but then….

You end up slipping,

You say too much, information you wouldn’t and should not know and now?

You’re in his basement. Beaten and tied up in a creaky chair, with nothing but the tattered clothes on your back and a dingy little light hanging above to keep you company. Wounds littered your body, some still bleeding and your eye hurts, you can still remember the feeling of his fingers digging in.

Tortured for days, you sit there, secured with chains. There’s no windows so you don’t know how long you’ve been down here. But you’re hungry, he seldom feeds you, only coming down to cause more pain. You beg for water and he grants it by feeding you a boiling cup of it.

You can’t tasted much anymore because of that.

Begging for mercy but he doesn’t listen. You’re in pain, so much pain, body aching from all the hurt he’s caused.

Please stop.

To you, he’s your favorite character, someone you admire, you learn to care for, love with all your heart, and….. hopefully wish to be with.

To him, you’re a stranger, a stranger that knows too much, a stranger that sees him as nothing but code and fiction, where all his experiences, all his pain and hurt. The trauma he’s had to witness, the past that made him who he was….

Was nothing but entertainment for you.

The thought leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

He leaves you out to die with a gift,

And what better gift than to remove the very thing that started it all? Cutting off your tongue brought him satisfaction, a deed to make sure you don’t spill anything to anyone, he could kill you but you’ll die out there and he’ll feel better knowing you will die a painful and wretchedly awful death.

It’s what creatures like you deserve.

You run off into the deepest parts of the nearby woods. Up into the mountains where snow falls all year round, you know this place, having been here multiple times for daily quests and picture - taking. It was beautiful then but the biting cold does nothing but make you hate it all the more.

You find an abandoned hut, it’s somehow furnished, cozy and you decided—fuck it you’ll live here, i mean, where else can you go? He’s known everywhere. Any town will send you to hang in the gallows if you dare speak— not that you could anymore.

Dressing your wounds as best you can, the ice helps to stop the bleeding, Relief and surprise is all you feel everyday you wake up still alive, infection barely seeping into your wounds.

Was it mercy from whoever brought you here?

You don’t know.

————

It’s been 2 years and you learn to forage, picking up familiar plants you know are edible and exploring collection spots you remember from your days simply gaming.

Oh how simple it was then.

Learning to trap small critters and skinning them to make cloth comes naturally to you, sometimes you wonder who’s body is it you’re controlling. Yet the reflection you see is yours—no one else.

It’s easy to avoid the monsters when you time it right. It’s suppose to be peaceful, a life that’s quiet. You don’t know how to get back but you’re fine living here.

Then…

He appears in front of your doorstep.

It’s almost laughable, the irony,

But unlike you, he’s actually injured. Unconscious. Wounded, battered.

Like how he left you.

Probably bit off more than he can chew when he fought his enemies on these mountains you remember, Heart and Head fight each other, your body still aches. Looking down onto his blood that splattered when he fell and continue to bleed into the ground.

You grit your teeth….

And bring in him.

You nurse him back to health to the best of your abilities, checking on him day after day, sleeping next to him on the floor while he bled all over your little cot you call a bed. He wakes, but he doesn’t recognize you. You keep yourself covered, hoods and unkempt hair does the trick.

He tries to thank you but you urge him to leave, a lack of a tongue makes it difficult to say what you really want which is ‘Get the fuck away from me’ but he eventually does. You wish it was the last you’ll see of him but alas….

He comes back, this time bearing gifts, money, food, fabric but you refused everything, almost slamming the door in his face, telling him no again and again as best you could without a tongue.

A threat to your life but he doesn’t know that.

He doesn’t recognize you, a cloak almost permanently stiched to your body, effectively hiding your appearance from him, a mask you’ve fashioned out of animal skin that stays on the lower part of your face, never making eye contact.

To him, you were a lonely, broken soul. Left to fend for themselves all alone in the mountains, no family, no friends, an eye bandaged because you can barely see with it after he tried gouging it out, the other one thankfully still works— missing fingers on both hands. It was no doubt that you were crippled, walking around with a limp because your left foot never healed correctly. Using a stick to support your weight when it got too cold. It warmed his heart to know people like you still existed….

But of course that was before he knew of who you really are.

Following you to the river to leave you high-quality soaps, he accidentally saw you undressed, and with it—your identity. At first he was ashamed, then disgusted, and finally enraged. He recognized those wounds.

He caused them.

The deep anger he feels coursing through his veins that you managed to fool him twice with your ‘supposed’ kindness has him going back to the hut you’ve made your home to ambush you there. Walking back unknowingly to your death. Tackling you at your doorstep and ripping off your hood— showing your hair and features, he seethes curses at you and sneers at your feeble attempts to escape him.

Insults leaves his lips, ones he’s never uttered before, would never use because he was raised better, because he wasn’t the type to do so. Terrible words you wouldn’t expect to leave your favorite character's mouth…

Yet here you are.

With his final words wishing you would burn in hell, he stabs you in the face. It’s almost peaceful that you instantly die but he wasn’t satisfied, the dagger he holds—a family heirloom, plunges into your face multiple times long after your death, skull almost breaking apart from the sheer force of his strength.

It’s quiet.

Nothing but the sounds of the howling winds billowing through the poorly covered windows. The makeshift door still wide open. A sigh of relief leaves him, somehow your death brings him peace—like something has finally gone right.

He looks down at the corpse beneath him in disgust, immediately getting off. He rushes home to clean himself of the filth, leaving your body there to rot, laying uncaringly in those barren mountains, unknown to the world.

Just the way he would like it.

Yet….

Why is it—

It’s been months later—but here is he, plagued with nightmares of you. Why? The memories of your fear-filled face from the moment he mercilessly sliced off your tongue to the final moments of your life where he caved your skull in with that Dagger. The same dagger on his desk that he cleaned off with mirth— Mere hours after your death, satisfied. Memories of your time together in the snowy alps when he didn’t know it was you raced through his head every waking moment. No matter how much he tried to turn off his thoughts.

He resorted to drinking it away, night after night, locking himself inside his bedroom where no-one in the manor would notice, not his family, nor the maids. Drinking himself into a stupor until he can’t anymore and passing out only to repeat it again the very next day.

Why was he doing this?

What’s happening to him?

Did he….feel guilty? For what he did to you?

Impossible! You deserved it! Every waking moment of your life from when he met you that was spent in torture was well-deserved! You caused all his hurt, the decisions you made when playing his route that led to him experiencing every god awful memory that made him who he was!

Right?

He didn’t know anymore…..all he could recall was that you never took advantage of him, from the day you ‘met’ him, you never once used your knowledge of him for your own benefit. All he knows, you could’ve blackmailed him, threaten him—anything!

And yet you didn’t…

All you did was enjoy your time with him—whatever you could get, even time after when you were but a shell of your former self….you still cared.

After realizing this, he ends up sobbing and bawling all over his sheets, hours upon hours spent just sobbing until he finally plucks the courage to leave his room by escaping through his bedroom window—to avoid anyone’s questions. Never minding it was on the second-floor, He ran non-stop.

With only one place in mind.

Finally arriving at his destination, he stopped to take a breath, in front of him was your hut, The little home you made yours, what little semblance of safety you had left—until he took everything away from you. The second time.

The cold biting air of the snowy mountains feels like nothing compared to the feeling in his chest, taking slow steps forward, each feels like a heavy weight added to his back with each foot placed onward. He was afraid—-

But of what?

The entryway was snowed in, blocking his path but his abilities made quick work of it, revealing a cracked, moldy and deteriorated wooden door, shaky fingers reach out to push it open. He didn’t know what to expect.

But there you still were. Body left on the ground where he brutally murdered you. Falling to his knees almost immediately, mournful sobs racked through his body, but his eyes refuse to close, choosing to look at the macabre display he had made of you —only to never be found.

Using whatever strength he had left to crawl towards you, hands shaking as he reaches out to touch you—cold, god you were so cold. What was he even expecting? Face cracked open, body stiff and limp, the extreme weather an advantage as it kept your body preserved well after death, not a single maggot to be seen on your still corpse.

He doesn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

It’s like he can almost see it—right there, on your lips, a sweet serene smile, if as you were happy. Not regretting a single thing. Maybe…. glad he was the one to kill you. To finish the job. An uncharacteristic scream echoes throughout the room and it took him a second to realize that it came from him.

Gently scooping you into his arms, he sobs into your no longer beating chest, begging for forgiveness, to come back, to hurt him, punish him—anything! He cries and wails for you like a child for hours into the white void until he couldn’t anymore, until all he could do was carry your dead body to the corner, to the small pathetic cot you called a bed—the one he laid in for days while you helped him back to health. He holds you there, throughout the snowstorms he held you. Whispering words of sorrow and agony, uselessly using whatever power he had to warm your cold body up—as thought it might magically bring you back.

As if the wailing, the screaming, the begging and whatnot could bring you back and mend the broken pieces of your face together. But nevertheless..

Lifeless you stay.

For he was the one to end it.

The one who left you there for months….

To rot.

—

Ever since that day, he started spending more time in your little space than anywhere else, still continuing his duties as normal, his nightly job of beating down criminals was met with even more ferocity—finding no remorse in slicing down actually bad people. A sick thought crosses his mind where you would be….proud of him for killing them. He would still visit his manor from time to time. To avoid the questions, continue to do his work in the towns and cities as the master on his house, still refusing the countless marriage proposals littering his desk. Ignoring the questions concerned for his behavior, they say he looked out of it but he feels fine—even his most closest companion asked if he was okay but he told them all with a warm smile;

That everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. A man known to all to be cold and closed off—smiled at them. It unsettled them all—It was weird, but he didn’t care, let them think what they wanted. There are rumors going around that he has fallen in….. love, but they’ve seen neither hair nor tail of this supposed ‘lover’.

With time he had come to think of your home as his, taking care of it and sweeping away the accumulating snow and dust but he never dared to move the possessions or add to the home.

He liked it as is, didn’t want to disturb them in any case you wouldn’t like it. Everyday—like clockwork, he would sweep the floor and cook his meals in a little pot and bonfire you had prepared in the middle of the room, sleeping in the little cot in the corner. Water the plants that surprisingly survived the harsh climate. Everyday he would find something to fix, whether it was a crack in the walls or a hole in the floorboards he would patch it up, in delusional hope that you would come back happy to see that your home was well taken care of.

But his most favorite part of the day?

Was at night when he wasn’t doing his nightly duties of finding criminals to bring to their knees, gently caressing the little possessions you owned, little knick knacks here and there, kissing the books he knows your sweet and soft hands touched, he knows they were soft, remembering the feel of them when you tended to him while he was weak and vulnerable. He sees a figurine you carved from your time still alive, he watched your hands—when you thought he was asleep. Pretty fingers that though inexperienced, carve away into a piece of wood to create a familiar animal that he realizes is his favorite. It squeezes at his heart the first time he saw it, dusting at the shelves. He broke down crying, this session long and tiring. Only stopping when the blinding sun switched into the calm crescent moon.

And your body? The one he spent 3 whole weeks holding and caressing? Offering empty apologies and promises that couldn’t be fulfilled because you will not come back. Never he thinks.

After mourning you enough, he brings your body to a bright field full of flowers in every color—a place he remembered you telling him was your favorite spot.

In the dead of night, he dug your grave all by himself, buried you before covering it the prettiest flowers he can find. Coming back every 3 days without fail to replace the flowers, and then planting more seeds, Rare ones, ones with the prettiest blooms—to decorate your grave.

All for you.

It’s been a year and a half of this—from when he…killed you. He found himself feeling happier than ever, it was so strange he thinks. From hating a person’s entire existence enough to torture them for days on end—to crying to them for repentance after realizing all the wrong he did.

He didn’t even think falling in love was something he could do, much less with a dead body. It wasn’t an emotion he thought of. Too busy taking care of the people of his manor and the criminals that littered the streets of his home.

Never mind pursuing love or potential marriage, a feat even the locals thought impossible—usually because how he, a young, successful and handsome bachelor often shies away from the opposite populace, rarely gracing the public gatherings with his presence.

Yet now….all he thinks about is you, awake or sleeping you’re all he sees, and now he finds a small pile of bedsheets and blankets, something you either made yourself or found within the home he doesn’t care, what does is that they smell like you. pressing them to his nose, he breathes in the scent that is you.

Laying them down onto the cot, he presses his face down into it, breathing in until his ribs show.

His cock swells with desire.

You smelt so good—addicting, and before he knew it, there he was. Stroking his cock to your smell, rubbing his face here and there as though trying to cover himself in it. Imaginging you on this very bed, sleeping.

He whimpers—shit..ahn….!….he’s gonna cum…!

Creak..

He snaps towards the door, the door slowly opens and in the doorway was a perosn he didn’t think he’d see again.

You.

You knew you shouldn’t have started it again.

Watching Invincible for, what, the ninth time in a row was, objectively, a bad idea.

Sleep deprivation? Imminent. Emotional damage? Guaranteed. Obsession? Already too late.

But could you stop? Absolutely not!

You already knew this entire show like the back of your hand, and yet, there was this strange compulsion to watch it over and over and over again. You’re pretty sure your mom is close to calling it an addiction at this point. Which…. fair.

She’d have a heart attack if she saw you right now.

“Just one more episode,” you mumbled for the fourth time this night, wrapped in a blanket burrito, the glow of the TV flickering across your face. Somewhere, in the very back of your mind, you registered just how ridiculous this has gotten— how you could quote entire scenes, how you had very strong (and sometimes crass) opinions about the story’s politics like it was real-world discourse.

Maybe your mom was right—

By the time you finally conked out, the sun was already threatening the horizon, Mark’s monologue to Conquest serving as background noise to your slumbering thoughts.

═══════

When you opened your eyes again, everything was… wrong.

No ceiling fan, no tangled charging cable, and most concerningly, where the hell is all your merchandise?! Your posters, the various comic books scattered across your room, your limited edition Atom Eve figurine?!?!

Before you can spiral any further— seriously, you spent hundreds on all of your shit— you finally take notice of where you are.

Just white.

Endless, blinding, sterile white.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, nodding along like this is all completely normal. “Either I’m dreaming, dead, or I finally snapped.”

A soft ping answered you.

A translucent screen flickered to life in front of your face. Its color was a soft blue, almost like it was trying to seem nonthreatening. Wasn’t really working, if you’re being honest—

WELCOME, USER.

PLEASE SELECT YOUR ABILITY.

You stared at it.

Then squinted.

Then reached out and poked it.

Your finger passed through the surface like mist, but the screen rippled in response.

“Oh, this is definitely a dream,” you decided. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Love that for me.”

The screen remained.

Waiting.

Expectant.

Can… machines be expectant…?

ENTER DESIRED ABILITY:

You hesitated— for just a moment.

I mean… if this was a dream…

A grin tugged at your lips.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Let’s make it count.”

Your fingers moved instinctively, like you’d typed it a thousand times before in debates, forums, comment sections—

Superman.

You didn’t elaborate, didn’t specify, didn’t think.

Why would you? This wasn’t real. Nothing that happened here meant anything out of this small moment. You’d wake up the next morning with a pounding headache, a few missed messages from your mom, and go on about your day. Nothing mattered—

The screen pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

You get the sudden feeling that you just fucked up.

Then—

INPUT ACCEPTED.

Your smile faltered.

“Wait—“

FINALIZING SELECTION.

“Hold on, I didn’t—“

POWER SET: SUPERMAN— CONFIRMED.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The world dropped out from under you.

═══════

You didn’t move at first.

Not because you couldn’t— but because you were afraid to.

The last thing you remember was that white room, the screen, the very questionable life choice of typing in “Superman” like you were picking a username instead of rewriting your entire existence. And now—

Now everything felt too sharp.

Your eyes were still closed, but light pressed insistently against your eyelids, brighter than it had any right to be. The air brushed against your skin in a way that felt… detailed. Individual. Like you could map every current, every shift in temperature without even trying.

And the noise.

God, the noise.

It wasn’t loud, exactly. Not overwhelming in volume, but it was layered. Complex. A thousand tiny sounds stacking on top of each other until your brain didn’t know what to do with them.

A clock ticking somewhere nearby.

Footsteps— no, multiple sets— moving above you.

Voices. Muffled through walls, but still clear. Too clear.

A car passing outside.

Another one, further away.

A siren in the distance.

Your breath hitched.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how steady it sounded to your own ears. “Okay, okay, okay…”

You forced yourself to open your eyes.

The ceiling came into focus instantly— no blur, no adjustment period. Just crisp, clean lines. White paint. A faint crack in the corner you could’ve sworn you counted the edges of without even trying.

“…That’s not normal,” you muttered.

You really need to quit talking to yourself.

Slowly, carefully, you pushed yourself upright.

Big mistake.

The moment you moved, your hand twitched instinctively against the surface beneath you— and the metal frame of the bed groaned.

You froze.

“…No.”

You looked down.

Your fingers were curled into the edge of the frame, the metal bent inward like soft clay. Like it hadn’t stood a chance.

You released it immediately, jerking your hand back like you’d been burned.

“NO.”

Your heart was racing, and you heard it. Not just felt it. Heard the rapid thud-thud-thud echoing in your chest like a drum.

Along with it came everything else.

Louder now.

Closer.

Someone talking in the hallway outside—“…told you, man, it’s not my shift—“

A phone vibrating in another room.

Water running through pipes somewhere below.

You slapped your hands over your ears.

Tried to ignore just how easily you could’ve smashed your own head like a god damn melon—

It didn’t help.

“Too much— too much, too much—“ you squeezed your eyes shut again, curling in on yourself. “Okay, okay— think. Think. This is— this is just sensory overload. Like— like Superman. First time. Focus, focus—“

Superman.

The word landed heavily. Your stomach dropped.

“…No way.”

Slowly, you lowered your hands.

The noise didn’t stop— but it… shifted. It wasn’t any quieter, but your brain started picking it apart, separating it into pieces you could almost manage.

Almost.

You swallowed hard and and swung your legs off the side of the bed, placing your feet carefully on the floor like you expected it to crack beneath you.

It didn’t.

“Good,” you whispered. “That’s good. Floor is good. Love the floor.”

Your gaze lifted, drawn toward the window across the room.

Sunlight poured through it— too bright, too vivid. You could see dust particles floating in the air, each one catching the light like little stars. Beyond the glass, the world stretched out in impossible clarity.

Buildings.

Streets.

Cars.

People.

You walked slowly, every movement deliberate, controlled.

“Don’t break anything,” you murmured under your breath. “Rule number one: don’t accidentally punch through a wall.”

Step by step you made your way to the window.

Your hands planted themselves on the glass— rather unnervingly, you don’t leave behind any fingerprints.

The city sprawled beneath you— but it wasn’t your city.

It took a second for your brain to process why.

The layout was wrong. The buildings unfamiliar. The skyline is just off enough to trigger that uncanny, creeping realization.

A sharp, whistling sound catches your attention— demanding you to look up—

A blur streaks across the sky.

Your breath catches in your throat.

A figure— no, a man— is flying.

You lean closer to the glass, eyes widening as your vision— traitorously, helpfully— zooms in without your permission.

The man slows down midair, hovering for just long enough for you to recognize him.

The red and white suit, the dark hair with streaks of gray, and that insufferable mustache—

Omni-Man himself lingers long enough outside your window for you to catch a glimpse of his furrowed brow before he’s taking off once again, disappearing between buildings.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

“No way,” you said again, weaker this time.

Your mind scrambled, piecing it together faster than you could stop it.

“Oh no.”

You stumbled away from the window like it had shot you, shaking your head rapidly.

Of all the worlds, of all the fictional universes you could’ve landed in.

It had to be this one!

The one where cities got leveled, where heroes lost, where people—

Your thoughts cut off abruptly.

Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale, you gaze drifting up towards the window once again.

Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass— wide-eyed, pale, terrified.

“I picked Superman.”

You have to resist the urge to reach up and tug on your hair.

“… in the Invincible universe.”

Silence hung heavy in the room.

You let out a weak, hysterical laugh, dragging a hand down your face.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “This is going to go great.”

At first, you risked life and limb to make it back home. And it was no easy feat. When you were sixteen or so, you thought that once you hit eighteen you could move out of the Wayne Manor and finally live your own life instead of trying to impress those who don’t want to be impressed. Specifically, your father and your absentee mother. What awaited you instead when you hit eighteen, however, was a portal to another world. The moment you landed your ass in fantasy land, all you wanted to do was to go back home. And like some predictable story line in some isekai manga, you were told that going home would require you to gather four magic navigation spells that were scattered across the land by the demon lord who terrorized the humans and commonfolk.

You were tempted to find the nearest beach and call it a day, but – home. It was all you could think about. So you set off, with a few people from that world joining with you to help you defeat the demon lord and get back home.

You didn’t expect to fall in love with the place. You didn’t mean to wind up in a love triangle between the home town, goody-two-shoes, hero or the residential bad boy who had a few too many skeletons in his closest. You didn’t mean to get swept off your feet by a dashing lady in knight armor, nor did you mean to get a pet dragon.

You didn’t mean your team of four to grow into a guild. You didn’t mean to defeat the demon lord and forget about your home. You didn’t mean any of it. But when the old wise man stepped up and patted your head and told you everything would be alright after you lost a teammate, well, you couldn’t help but to fall in love with the land you were transported to. So, maybe you did mean to forget about home. Well, until you found yourself where you didn’t want to be. Right back in the world that you finally decided to leave behind.

“You’re awake!”

You winced a little when the sun broke through the curtains of the window and blinded you momentarily. Your eyes were quick to readjust though, and you brought your gaze to- Dick?

“Where- you- huh?”

Dick didn’t let you get a full question out as he basically tackled you to the bed. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders as he just about squeezed the life out of you. You coughed a little and tried to pat him on the back in hopes of him letting you go. And by some miracle, he did.

“You’ve been gone for years… if it wasn’t for Zatanna reversing the spell and figuring out how to bring you back, you- you may have been gone forever.”

You closed your eyes for a second to gather your thoughts before you sat up. Your body slightly ached from the movement, but you weren’t stopping, and when Dick went to help you, you raised a hand, grabbed his shoulder, and gently pushed him back into his seat.

“So you all managed to bring me back home? This is really… the manor? Gotham?”

Dick was quick to nod, “yes, and we- h-hey wait, what are you doing?”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, your bare feet pressed to the floor. You took another deep breath before pushing up and walking towards the door. Your bedroom door. Though, if you were being honest – this place didn’t feel like your room at all.

“Is Zatanna still here?”

“She is, but- hey!”

You opened the door and went down the long hall, “perfect.”