Ken Kanakura considered his existence to be a masterclass in the color beige. Not an offensive beige, nor a particularly soothing one. Just… beige. He was a junior at Mizusawa Prefectural High, a school as remarkable as a single grain of rice in a ten-kilogram sack. His grades were firmly anchored in the middle, his athletic prowess was a theoretical concept, and his social circle, if one could call it that, consisted primarily of the flickering characters on his monitor and the occasional, monosyllabic exchange with the guy who sat in front of him in math, mostly about overdue homework.
He was an otaku, a fact he didn't broadcast but didn't meticulously hide either. His sanctuary was his room, a space dominated by manga-lined shelves, strategically placed anime figures still in their pristine boxes (their value, you know), and a gaming setup that was probably his most significant investment. Here, amidst the vibrant worlds of isekai heroes and tsundere love interests, Ken felt a semblance of control, a dash of excitement that his real life stubbornly refused to provide. He understood the tropes, predicted the plot twists, and even occasionally fantasized about what it would be like to possess a cheat skill or a destiny pre-ordained for greatness. Reality, however, had a penchant for serving him lukewarm tea and a side of existential ennui.
His daily routine was a well-worn groove. Wake up just late enough to make breakfast a frantic grab-and-dash affair. Endure classes by mentally replaying last night's anime episode or strategizing for his current JRPG. Lunch was usually eaten alone, a bento his mother dutifully prepared, its contents often mirroring the predictability of his day. After school, it was a beeline for home, the siren song of his digital worlds pulling him away from the awkward, unscripted interactions of the real one.
There were moments, of course, tiny pinpricks in the fabric of his beige existence, where he felt the sting of something more. A pang of loneliness when he saw groups of classmates laughing, their easy camaraderie a language he hadn't quite mastered. A flicker of frustration when a rare attempt to contribute to a class discussion was met with polite indifference or, worse, a condescending smile from a more popular peer. These were the moments he usually buried under another layer of manga or a new game release. It was easier that way.
He wasn't unhappy, not exactly. "Content" was too strong a word. "Resigned" felt more accurate. He'd carved out his niche, his comfortable little echo chamber where the heroes always won and the awkward protagonist eventually, miraculously, got the girl. Or girls, plural, if it was that kind of series. He understood those narratives. Real life, with its distinct lack of save points and clearly defined win conditions, was a far more baffling game.
One particular Tuesday, the beige felt a little more… textured. It was a subtle shift, like the air pressure dropping before a storm you can't quite see yet. He'd fumbled a presentation in history, mixing up dates and emperors, earning a sigh from the teacher and a few muffled snickers from the back row. Later, during lunch, he'd tried to join a conversation about a new mecha anime, only for the group to subtly shift, their body language closing him out as effectively as a locked door. It wasn't malicious, he told himself. They just didn't know him. He didn't know them. It was the natural state of things.
Still, as he walked home, the usual upbeat J-pop in his headphones sounded a little flat. The vibrant colors of the sunset seemed to mock the monochrome mood settling over him. He found himself absently kicking a loose pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement. Another day, another masterstroke of mediocrity. He sighed, the sound lost in the urban hum. If only something, anything, would change.
He had no idea how profoundly, and how terrifyingly, that idle wish was about to be granted.