"Big bro, you listening?"
A voice rang out in the quiet hospital room, filled only with the dull hum of machines and the distant chatter of nurses.
The speaker was a teenage boy, no older than sixteen, with a mop of black hair and a pair of oversized medicated glasses that kept slipping down his nose.
He pushed them up with a finger, blinking at the man lying in bed like he wasn't covered in more bandages than a horror movie mummy.
On the bed, wrapped up like a half-eaten burrito, was his older brother — emaciated, pale, and barely clinging to consciousness.
A patient's gown hung loosely off his frame, and his limbs looked more like sticks than human arms.
His legs were heavily bandaged, as was most of his torso, giving him the appearance of someone who had tried to fight a blender and lost.
"…Yeah," came the weak reply.
His voice was hoarse, every syllable slow and labored, like it took more energy than his body had left.
But his eyes — sunken though they were — still carried a flicker of interest.
This was their routine now.
His younger brother would visit every weekend with updates about some new RPG game he'd been playing — Hunter's Embrace: The Road To Sword Hero and narrate entire story arcs like he was doing a dramatic podcast.
It was the only thing keeping the two of them connected… and possibly the only reason the man in bed was still clinging to life.
"So," the younger one said, eyes lighting up behind his smudged lenses, "this act was about the Student Council President — Artemia. Total boss-type villainess. Platinum hair, sword taller than her, emotional walls like a fortress. Unlike the usual dungeon crawling and monster-punching stuff, this act was emotional warfare."
He paced the room as he spoke, waving his hands like a game streamer doing a recap.
The older brother smiled weakly, letting the sound of his brother's voice replace the constant beeping of his heart monitor.
"The academy's in an uproar over the student council election. The player has to join one of the factions — Celia's, or one of the rival heroines'. Whichever faction you back? Boom, that heroine wins. Pretty clever, since the protagonist's a high-ranking hunter and total fan favorite."
The man in the bed coughed softly, his cracked lips twitching upward. "And… the villainess?"
"Oh yeah," the younger one said, adjusting his glasses dramatically. "There isn't much information about why the villainesses did what she did, but Artemia goes full psycho mode. Gives her soul to an evil god, interrupts the election, and tries to nuke everything with dark magic."
"Classic," the older one wheezed.
"But She gets stopped by Celia and the protagonist before she finishes transforming into her 'Final Demon Form.' Kinda felt bad for her. She was actually super competent until the whole evil possession thing."
The younger brother pulled a chair closer and sat, his voice quieter now. "Anyway, that's Act IV. I'll finish the next one this week and come back next Saturday. Sound good?"
The man in the bed gave a slow nod. "Thanks… for always telling me."
"Don't die before I finish the game," the younger one said with an awkward grin, ruffling his brother's hair as gently as he could. "I'm saving the best heroine routes for last."
With that, he stood and made his way out of the room, not noticing the way his brother's lips curled just slightly in amusement at that parting line.
Once the door closed… the smile faded.
Blood trickled down the corner of his lips.
He coughed, trying to suppress it, but his body wasn't listening anymore.
The beeping of the heart monitor began to spike erratically.
A nurse walked in carrying a clipboard and nearly dropped it when she saw the monitor.
"Doctor! We need a crash cart now!"
Chaos erupted around him.
He could hear voices — panicked ones. Nurses rushing. Equipment wheeling. The doctor shouting something over the intercom.
His vision began to fade, the ceiling lights becoming distant stars, like he was floating up and away from the world.
He felt cold… cold and tired.
But there was something peaceful about it. Like logging off after a long game session, knowing someone will pick up where you left off.
His last thought, oddly enough, wasn't fear.
It was…
'I wonder how that game ends.'
And then—
"Hey! Clovis, you okay? You're spacing out again!"
His eyes snapped open.
Wait.
He had eyes?
He sat bolt upright, blinking wildly at the scene around him.
No hospital. No heart monitor. No IV drip. No sterile smell of disinfectant. Just —
A tent. No… a fancy-looking command tent, complete with mana lamps, maps spread across a table, and a fireplace roaring in the background like it owed someone rent.
He looked down at his hands — unbandaged, healthy, and suspiciously well-manicured.
The reflection on a nearby polished shield showed him a face he did not recognize: Handsome. Strong jawline. Tousled blond hair.
And the smuggest grin he'd ever seen — and he wasn't even smiling.
What the hell.
"Clovis," the guy next to him said was tall, buff, tank-type with heroic eyebrows. "You're up next. Try not to fall on your ass this time, yeah?"
"…Clovis?" he whispered.
He looked down at his clothes. A pristine academy uniform, slightly flamboyant with a purple cape and gold buttons that screamed "I'm rich and probably useless in combat."
He even had a jeweled cane.
And that's when it hit him.
This was the game.
This was Hunter's Embrace.
And he was the comedy relief villain his brother had always laughed at, Clovis Dreadthorn.