"Fuck, I'm cooked."
Jack Lawson muttered those words like a man declaring his own obituary.
He sat hunched on a cracked metal bench at the city bus stop, fingers clenched tight around his weathered briefcase like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
Which, in some symbolic way, it was.
He looked like any other tired office drone: cheap tie, rumpled shirt, expressionless eyes haunted by unpaid rent and microwaved leftovers.
The morning sun was unforgiving, bouncing off the pavement like it was personally offended by his existence.
He checked his watch again. 7:58 AM.
"Bus is late again," he grumbled. "Of course it is. Can't even die of old age before capitalism murders me first."
Jack worked at Ino Corp, a soul-draining tech company notorious for overworking its employees and underpaying them in equally legendary measure.
The only mildly interesting thing about the job?
They were developing Ascension Online — a VR game hyped to change the world. Or, at least, milk it dry through microtransactions.
He reached into his pocket and slipped in his earbuds.
Maybe some music would distract him from the —
A screech. Tires. A horn blaring like God stubbed His toe.
Jack turned just in time to see a city bus spiraling across the intersection like a derailed Beyblade, knocking over a street lamp, several trash bins, and his will to live.
The driver's face was frozen in horror.
The world slowed down.
Jack's jaw dropped.
"…Huh."
The bus did not slow down.
The last thing he remembered was the crunch of metal and the satisfying pop of one of his earbuds flying out.
...
He woke up screaming.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"
"—AAAAAAAAAAaaaahh?"
Jack blinked.
He wasn't on fire.
That was progress.
He also wasn't a meat pancake on the sidewalk.
That was a bonus.
What he was, however, was lying on a soft, unfamiliar bed in a very unfamiliar room with walls painted a relaxing teal and curtains that looked way too clean to be real.
His breathing was sharp and erratic.
His hands clawed at his face, checking for blood, missing teeth, or a new mustache.
Nothing at all.
"Where…?"
And then he saw it.
Sitting neatly on his lap, like a cursed birthday gift from a demon, was a black helmet.
It had four jagged horns. Its surface was sleek like obsidian, polished to a shine.
Honestly, it looked like Iron Man had a baby with a satanic goat.
Jack stared at it.
It stared back.
Then it spoke.
[Congratulations on your reincarnation, Host.]
"...I beg your pardon?"
[You died in your original world due to fatal levels of stupidity — specifically, sitting and waiting for the spinning bus to crush you. But don't worry, we've recycled your soul into this exciting new universe where things are way worse.]
"Oh," Jack said blankly. "Nice."
[I will be your System. Your partner. Your guide. Your loyal virtual hype-man.]
"I feel like I should be more alarmed by this."
[You should. But you're in shock, so I'll allow it. Turn on the television, mortal.]
"...You just call me 'mortal'?"
[Do it.]
Jack muttered something unprintable, grabbed the remote from the nightstand, and turned on the TV.
There was static and then...
An image came into focus: a massive crater in the middle of a city plaza.
Ruined buildings. Crushed cars. Giant claw marks etched into the pavement like nature's graffiti.
And in the center, surrounded by glowing corpses of monsters, stood a woman in crimson armor.
Long silver hair, gold-plated gauntlets, and a spear taller than she was.
She stood with one foot on a mutated bear's head like it owed her money.
"Venus, S-Rank Hunter, led the successful containment of the Gate breach in Sector 7," the anchor announced. "Over 200 creatures eliminated in under twenty minutes. Zero civilian casualties. Her popularity continues to rise—"
Jack's expression darkened.
"Oh," he said. "Cool. Monster invasions. Anime waifus with weapons. And here I am… in pajamas."
[Correction: Those are standard-issue Recovery PJs. Made of synthetic Dreamweave fibers. Worth 600 credits. You're welcome.]
"I was vaporized by a city bus and dropped into a post-apocalyptic monster world," Jack groaned. "I don't care what my jammies are made of but damn, I'm an idiot."
[Correct. But you're my idiot now. Let me explain.]
The helmet floated off his lap and hovered in the air like it was sentient.
[This world is overrun by portals called Origin Gates. They open randomly and unleash monsters, disasters, and occasionally cursed loot. Humanity fights back with elite soldiers known as Hunters. Your new body belonged to a young man who wanted to become one… but had zero talent.]
"Wait, wait," Jack said. "So this guy was a college dropout and an aspiring Hunter?"
[Yes. Tragically poor. Raised his younger sister after their parents died. Very noble. Very sad. Lots of guilt. You'll love it.]
Jack's face twisted. "How old is the sister?"
[Sixteen. You are now nineteen. Please don't be weird about it.]
"I wasn't gonna be weird!"
[Just clarifying. This genre gets dicey.]
Jack coughed and pointed at the floating helmet.
"Alright, so what do you actually do? You're my System, yeah? What, you track XP? Help me farm mobs? Upgrade gear?"
[Better. I help you seduce women.]
Jack stared.
"...What?"
[Behold! The Harem Hunter System™! Now with livestream integration, fan chat, and an automatic thirst filter!]
The helmet projected a glowing interface into the air, covered in tabs like:
[Flirt Log]
[Hunter Affection Ratings]
[Skill Absorption Sync]
[Outfit Customizer]
"I feel like I just got kidnapped by an incel startup," Jack muttered.
[Your mission is simple: Build bonds with female Hunters. The stronger your relationship, the more power you gain. Date a fire mage? Get fire powers. Woo a psychic? Get mind powers. Get dumped? Lose it all. So, don't screw up.]
Jack squinted. "This is just Pokémon with emotional damage."
[Incorrect. Pokémon don't flirt back.]
There was a knock at the door.
Jack jumped.
A voice called through the door, "Jack? You awake yet?"
[That's your sister. She made breakfast. Act normal. Or don't. I'm here for the drama.]
"Yeah I'm coming."
He stood up, took one step, and immediately tripped over his own feet.
CRASH.
[Great start, Casanova.]