"In all honesty, Nakamura," said Mr. Yamazaki, sipping from his gold-foiled espresso cup, "you disgust me."
Shinji blinked, still holding his pathetic little notepad. "Sir?"
"Too many men in this damn office. Sometimes I wish the whole lot of you would just burn and die," the boss muttered with theatrical disgust, rising from his leather chair like he was about to give a villain monologue. He stared out the blinds dramatically. "Do you know how much crap I get from the other execs for hiring men— and especially male—as my personal assistant? They keep calling my department a sausage fest."
He turned, deadpan. "They all have female assistants—fluent in five dialects, masters of negotiation warfare, and every single one of them rocking a BBL."
He paused, then smirked.
"That's a Bachelor in Business Language, in case you're wondering. Not the other kind—though, frankly, either would just also improve their productivity."
"I wished for a competent, pretty woman—someone who could file paperwork, smile, and take low pay without complaining. But no, I had to be professional about it. Instead, I got you—someone who can't even file his own taxes without crying.
Shinji wanted to say something brave—something that would earn him a standing ovation and maybe a raise in a parallel universe. Instead, he bowed and mumbled, "But, sir… men don't get pregnant."
Mr. Yamazaki snorted. "Exactly… right, Nakamura. And when the other execs departments turn into goddamn baby factories, and every meeting gets hijacked by gender reveal cupcakes and maternity leave schedules, those execs will finally realize I was the fucking visionary."
"Too bad I still have to let you go," Yamazaki said, already scrolling through his phone.
"But sir, what about everything you just said? The visionary stuff—the cupcakes, maternity leave, men can't get pregnant—"
"Yeah, yeah, men can't get pregnant, blah blah," he waved dismissively. "Doesn't change the fact they still call this place the Sausage Fest. Optics, "Nakamura. No hard feelings." Yamazaki glanced up, smirking. "And no offense—but you're the last person I want crawling under my desk to pick up a file."
Shinji turned to leave, shoulders heavy, pride in shreds. As he passed the open-floor cubicles, some coworkers gave him pitying glances. Others typed furiously, whisper-praying to the gods of payroll: Please not me, please not me.
Then Yamazaki's voice thundered again, "Tobi! You're next—get in my damn office!"
Shinji and Tobi locked eyes. It was the universal look of two men circling the same corporate drain: Yep. You're totally getting your ass fired too.
Just as Shinji reached the elevator, he heard Yamazaki's voice faintly through the door:
"By the way, Tobi… you know what BBL stands for?"
Click.
The door shut.
Shinji didn't even turn around.
Poor bastard, he thought. He's about to find out it's not a Brazilian butt lift.
On the way home, he could already hear his mother's voice echoing in his head like a final boss taunt.
"Gaming will never get you money, Shinji. You think playing 'GunWizard 3' until 3AM is a career? Get a real job. Meet a girl. Be someone."
Ironically, his "real job" had slowly turned him into a soulless husk of a man—and now, he didn't even have that. He missed being fifteen, grinding dungeons with Nanami until sunrise. Back then, they were unstoppable—co-op PvP kings, best friends, dreaming of going pro together.
Then Nanami vanished.
One day they were slaying dragons—next, his mom barged in, called Nanami a "good-for-nothing shut-in," and pulled the plug on everything. "Stop talking to that boy," she snapped. "He's rotting your brain."
Moments later, trudging home and marinating in self-pity, Shinji froze.
There he was.
Nanami—jogging in high-end sneakers, hair tied back in a smug ponytail, arms that screamed yes, I do pull-ups and also your girl.
Shinji ducked behind a vending machine.
"No fucking way," he whispered.
But fate, being the nosy little bitch it is, had other plans.
Out of nowhere, a white delivery truck screeched around the corner, horn blaring like it had a grudge against exercise.
"LOOK OUT!" Shinji shouted.
Nanami leapt back just in time. The truck missed him by inches, kicking up a gust of wind and leaving behind one horrifying detail:
License plate: TRUCK-KUN 12-JPY
Nanami caught his breath, then broke into a grin.
"Dude… no way. Shinji?"
Shinji nodded, still slack-jawed. "What the hell kind of truck was that?"
Before Nanami could answer, a pack of angry protestors came charging down the street, waving cardboard signs that read:
"STOP LAZY WRITING!"
"DOWN WITH TRUCK-KUN!"
"BE CREATIVE, YOU COWARDS!"
One guy was in a full traffic cone costume, screaming about plot integrity.
Nanami watched them pass, unfazed. "Legendary-tier. You don't mess with Truck-kun."
He turned back to Shinji, grinning. "Damn, man. It's been what, ten years?"
""What happened to you?" Shinji asked.
Nanami laughed. "Remember how my mom hated games almost as much as yours? Said they were rotting my brain? Made me cut everyone off?"
Shinji nodded.
"Yeah, she kicked me out. Thought she won." Nanami smirked. "Joke's on her."
Shinji blinked. "Wait… no way—"
"Yep. I'm a pro now. Just wrapped a season in L.A. I get paid to do what I love."
Shinji nearly choked on his own jealousy. "Get paid to do what, exactly?"
"Kissing dragons. Slapping orcs. Hero shit, dummy. Gaming." Nanami laughed, then gave him a quick nod. "Hit me up sometime. We'll catch up for real."
***
They met a week later at a Tokyo café, trendy and overpriced.
Shinji leaned over the table like he was interviewing for heaven. "I want in."
Nanami smiled knowingly. "I figured. That office job killing your soul?"
"Slaughtered it. No respawns. I lost my job, actually."
Nanami took a sip of his oat milk latte, unfazed. "Well, if you're serious about this, you'll need to gear up."
"Hit me."
"Decent PC, high refresh rate monitor, solid audio rig, ergonomic gaming chair—"
Shinji's eyes lit up with joy… until Nanami kept going.
"—training subscriptions, VPN for region-locked scrims, maybe a coach—"
"How much are we talking?"
Nanami casually tapped a number into his phone and flipped the screen.
¥2,300,000 (~$15,000 USD)
Shinji's soul evacuated his body on the spot.
"I'll sell my bed," he muttered. "And maybe… my dignity."
"Too late for that," Nanami said, sipping smugly.
***
What followed was a montage of poor life decisions—or were they?
Shinji listed everything on secondhand apps:
His microwave ("Goodbye.")
His couch ("Still smells like the ramen I spilled on it when I first moved in.") He gave it one last nostalgic sniff—then immediately hacked up a lung. "goddamn—what the hell's living in there? Feels like I just freebased mold."And even a box of "limited edition" anime figures he once swore he'd be buried with.
He smirked.
"But I can buy more limited editions... with pro gamer money," he muttered, tapping his temple he was explaining a smart way to live life 'Genius'.
It was the kind of logic that had technically never worked before—but this time, it felt different. This time, he had the idea all planned out.
He tried to sell his busted office chair, proudly calling it "one of a kind" in the listing. The buyer responded with a screenshot of two identical models on sale at half the price, followed by a single, eloquent message:
"Piss off."
Shinji stared at the screen, muttered "Fair enough," and quietly deleted the listing.
Eventually, he stood triumphant in his boxers, surrounded by empty delivery boxes and a glowing shrine of RGB lights.
Weeks later, Shinji was broke, mildly caffeinated, and armed with the most overkill gaming setup in the apartment complex. His room looked like a spaceship had crash-landed into a party.
He cracked his knuckles, logged in, and messaged Nanami.
"I'm ready."
Nanami replied instantly:
"Good. Time for your initiation."
"Wait... like hazing?"
"No, dumbass. Like camping."
"WHAT."
***
Turned out, it was definitely more cult than camping.
He should've known something was off when they made him sign a waiver.
Deep in the woods, Shinji met four other pro gamers, all weirdly hot, all wearing matching black windbreakers like a cyber-ninja sect.
They greeted him in unison: "Welcome, Shinji."
Shinji muttered under his breath: "Yep. This is definitely hazing."
The leader—a guy with neon green hair, no eyebrows, and the confidence of someone who definitely owns a katana—stepped forward and handed Shinji a dusty canvas bag.
"To prove yourself," he intoned, "you must first earn a name."
Shinji peeked inside. The bag was filled with what looked like the contents of a chaotic thrift store: a bar of soap, two toy cars, a packet of instant noodles, a single slightly-stale croissant, and a cracked TV remote.
He held up the remote. "Seriously? This is—?"
"Your gamer name shall be... Remote-kun," the leader announced solemnly.
"Remote-kun? That's the best you've got?"
"It is tradition," the leader said, as the others nodded gravely like monks who had also once been named after random crap in a sack.
Then came the real test.
They sat cross-legged around a campfire, trading tales of PvP glory, ragequits, and questionable product sponsorships. Laughter echoed through the forest as someone passed around energy drinks like they were sacred wine.
Then, the leader rose—silhouetted by the flames, windbreaker billowing like he was summoning a final boss.
"To truly become one of us," he declared, "you must kiss the Snake of Acceptance."
"…The what?" Shinji blinked.
From a suspiciously ornate wooden box, they pulled it out: a snake. Long. Thick. Suspiciously smug. It slithered with the lazy confidence of a creature that had absolutely seen some shit. Its tongue flicked in and out like it knew Shinji's browser history and years of animal planet binge watching.
"That thing is too well-fed to be normal," Shinji muttered, backing away. "Hell no. I'm not kissing that thing. I haven't even kissed girls and they classify as snakes ."
Nanami cracked open another can. "Average earnings: $150,000 a month."
Shinji immediately turned back to the snake. "…Where's its mouth?"
"Don't worry," one of them said. "It's totally not poisonous. Chill as hell."
So Shinji leaned down. The others chanted: "Remote-kun! Remote-kun!"
He tried to kiss it—then BAM. The snake jerked, bit Nanami right on the thigh, and chaos broke out.
"Fuck!" Nanami shouted. "It bit me!"
Shinji's heart was racing, eyes flicking between the snake, which was wriggling aggressively before darting off, and Nanami's exposed thigh. "Why the thigh though?! Why not an arm or something?!"
"Because we discussed it over a cup of tea, dumbass! I told her where to bite—fuck, it burns!" Nanami snapped, clearly struggling to stay calm as the venom coursed through his veins.
"Guys, I think I'm gonna die," Nanami mumbled, feeling his leg swell and burn, as though his body was turning into a human chili pepper.
"Thought you said it wasn't poisonous!" Shinji yelled, clutching his head in disbelief. Sweat was pouring down his face, his spine tingling with panic.
The leader glanced at the snake's container, his face blanching.
"Shit, I took the wrong snake!" Nanami shouted, his voice filled with frustration. "I knew picking you as the leader this year was a mistake, you piece of shit!"
The leader scrambled to grab the container, now clearly second-guessing his life choices.
"Oh crap, I'm gonna die…" Nanami whimpered, his eyes glued to his rapidly swelling thigh.
Suddenly, someone yelled, "Quick! Someone suck the venom out!"
"Please, anyone!" Nanami begged, his voice cracking with desperation.
In a blur of panic, they yanked down Nanami's shorts, exposing way too much of his muscular leg than anyone should've had to see.
"This is your destiny, Remote-kun!" they all chanted in unison, like a twisted cheerleading squad.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Shinji screamed as they shoved him forward, practically forcing him toward Nanami's leg as if he was the world's last hope.
Shinji stood frozen, staring at Nanami's leg. The absurdity of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. He didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or just pass out from sheer cringe.
"That $150,000 better come fast after this…" he muttered, closing his eyes and reluctantly heading toward the affected area.
"Prove your loyalty! Suck it!"
Shinji blinked. "Suck what?"
"His thigh!" the leader shouted.
Shinji deadpanned. "Yeah, I heard you the first time."
Under intense peer pressure, panic, and the oddly comforting scent of smoked marshmallows, Shinji leaned in—because apparently, this is what friendship looked like now.
Nanami groaned. Not in pain. In something else.
"Why the hell are you moaning?!" Shinji gagged, mid-suck.
"I don't know! It's weird! I'm panicking! Just get the poison out, man!"
Fueled by adrenaline and existential dread, Shinji sucked with the might of a thousand industrial vacuum cleaners.
He felt it—glory. Masculinity. Brotherhood. Maybe a little trauma.
The others erupted in applause.
"Remote-kun! Remote-kun! Look at him GO!"
He threw his arms up in triumph, chest heaving, pupils dilated like a man reborn.
"Can I get a YAHOOOO!?"
"YAHOOO!" he shouted, high on the moment—
Then froze.
Silence fell like a bad patch update.
He blinked.
"…Oh no."
The leader took a step back. "Wait. Did you… did you swallow it?"
Shinji dropped to his knees, choking.
"It tastes like regret and cheap protein powder!"
Nanami's eyes widened. "DID YOU JUST SWALLOW THE FUCKING VENOM?!"
"…Maybe?!" Shinji gasped.
"You dumbfuck."
The next thing Shinji knew, the world turned blue.
A floating pixelated screen appeared:
[YOU HAVE DIED IN THE DUMBEST WAY POSSIBLE.]
[CONGRATULATIONS: YOU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE.]
[LOADING: TRANSMIGRATION BEGINS NOW]