Chapter 9: Timeout error

"I love you."

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—I love you so much.

No matter how many layers of pretense I wrap it in, these feelings burst through and spill over.

I don’t want him taken from me. Absolutely, absolutely not.

Because he was the first to love me. I didn’t steal him. I didn’t trick him. I did nothing wrong.

So why—why should I have to give him up?

Because she’s the "right" heroine? Because the world will end if the story doesn’t go as planned?

I don’t care.

I won’t cater to some narrative anymore.

Honestly, expecting a fifteen-year-old high school boy to save the world was a flawed premise from the start.

The destiny of the chosen one? The duty of those entrusted with a great will? With great power comes great responsibility?

I don’t give a damn.

Let’s just run away. We should run away.

Somewhere far away, on a deserted island, we’ll build a shelter sturdy enough to outlast the apocalypse. We’ll spend our days quietly, right up until the final countdown, and no one can say a damn thing about it.

I don’t care.

I don’t know the people who live in peace. Why should I fight for strangers I’ve never even met?

I don’t know the ones who want to protect the world. Let them fight on their own, without dragging us into it.

And I don’t know her—Nijisaki Ameshoku. The one trying to take him from me. She has no right to steal him when she could’ve been happy without doing anything.

I don’t know her either—Hoshizumi Sora Misora. Still lying unconscious in that hospital bed—

"—Ah!!"

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I slam the box cutter into my wrist. Again. And again. Hard enough to sever.

The pain interrupts my thoughts. Endorphins flood in. My brain numbs. Blood spurts. It gushes.

But what I really want to drain is this guilt.

And what kind of atonement is this measly bleeding?

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts—but my unnaturally resilient body heals too fast. The wounds seal before they can take. Except, accelerated healing doesn’t erase the function.

The scars from repeated cuts have turned keloid.

Disgusting. Disgusting.

He’ll hate me for this. I don’t want that. And yet, part of me—

Part of me wants him to see.

Sometimes I wish he weren’t the protagonist. Then we could be happy, without regrets.

Stupid. How stupid.

I can’t even save Sora Misora. If I think like that, she’ll never be saved.

What right does trash like me—someone who hasn’t done a single thing they should—have to wish for happiness?

Ah.

I realize it now.

The reason I desperately suppressed my feelings was because I didn’t want to face this guilt.

"I had no choice."
"It was necessary."
"I didn’t want to, but there was no other way."

If I don’t keep making excuses like this, the weight of it all will crush me.

I want relief. I want it now.

I want someone to save Sora Misora quickly. I want to be free of this guilt. I want forgiveness. I want someone to tell me, "You had no choice."

How pathetic.

I hate this. I hate myself like this.

I wanted to be better. I wanted to meet him as someone worthy.

Someone stronger.
Smarter.
Always kind. Always good.

Cute, full of charm.

Loved by everyone, relied on by all.

Unbroken by hardship, overcoming every trial.

Capable of unwavering virtue, never making a single mistake.

Only that ideal me—only a true heroine—deserves him.

But this me...

A former boy.
Not even a real girl.

This me—

"—Ah."

A flash of memory.

A hazy, half-remembered face.

The past life I want to forget.

No. No. No. No.

I can’t breathe.

My chest tightens. My throat clenches shut. Air won’t come in. My vision swims as I clutch at my neck, gasping.

I stare at the mirror.

Reflected in the glass is a girl with tear-filled eyes.

Swollen, yet still lovely—a long-haired pink girl.

Relief floods me. And I hate myself for it.

Because nothing inside me has changed.

I’m still deceiving him with this girl's shell. Still lying, still pretending.

I shouldn’t find comfort in this.

I'm done. I want to forget.

I reach for the memory erasure device, remember it’s locked against personal use—
I break the safety mechanism.

And then, struck by how absurd this is, I throw it aside.

I curl up on the floor.

Too scared to dream.

Too scared to close my eyes.

That should have been a happy dream.

While dreaming, I could forget my sins and failures.

But now, it’s nothing but a nightmare.

I'm done.

I never want to go back to that world.

A world where no one ever saw me as irreplaceable.

That world—my past life.

Born sickly. A weak body. A burden to everyone.

I tried my hardest not to be a nuisance.

My father abandoned us. My mother struggled alone.

I learned to care for myself. Brushed off concern. Held back from seeking affection. Acted like I didn’t need kindness.

In the end, my mother grew distant.

She remarried. Had another daughter. Doted on her, spoiled her.

And me?

I was just furniture that ate up medical expenses.

I wanted friends. Bonds deeper than family.

But I never managed it.

A sickly kid, constantly hospitalized.

Held back a grade.

Teachers saw me as a way to pad their "caring educator" credentials.

And me, so bad at socializing, I mistook that for friendship.

In college, my connections thinned until they were barely there. I clung to them anyway. I helped with everything—took on all the chores, lent money. Their polite smiles made me happy. Even being an afterthought, a last-minute invite to outings, made me happy. I convinced myself it meant something.

Then, just before graduation, I got sick. No one came to visit.

With trembling hands, I wrote my will. Desperate to see someone before I died, I begged the doctors to call my friends.

Outside the ICU, they showed up in casual clothes, laughing.
"Long time no see! When this is over, let’s go somewhere fun!"
I could hear them.

Then they stepped inside, their faces instantly solemn, their concern forced.
Stop it. Don’t mock me.
The ventilator stole my voice.

And then—I died.

Surrounded by faces pretending to cry, I died.

Now, I carefully take out a single slip of paper.

A purikura photo. A silly little thing, but it means everything. Both of us awkward, nervous, but laughing. In one shot, I followed the automated instructions too literally and hugged him—his face turned bright red.

Of course, the me in that photo is a girl. That’s why he blushed. That makes me happy. I’m happy I could make him happy. And I want to make him happier. More and more—I’d do anything for him. I want him to think I’m cute. I want him to want to protect me. To see me as precious.

"Be... my friend..."

A true friend. Someone who genuinely cares. Someone who sees me, values me.

…But I already know. My feelings have long since overflowed past that.

I want him to pat my head. To praise me, tell me I did well. I want to play games together, go on trips, just the two of us. I want to wear cute clothes and hear him say I look adorable. I want to be held tight. I want to—

The thought of kissing him still makes me hesitate. But even so…

If the discomfort could be drowned out by happiness, wouldn’t that be bliss?

I want to do those things too—with him, for him. The male part of me recoils in disgust, but the thought of being reshaped into his girl—forced down, molded into something softer—must be ecstasy. I want him to kill the boy in me. I want to be a girl. I want to be loved.

Loved. Loved. Loved. Loved. Loved.

My hand slips under my clothes. But I was never good at this—it always just leaves me feeling pathetic. No matter what I do, I can’t shake the thought that this body was made to take men.

Crouched in the dark, I muffle my voice. Pleasure claws at my brain, melting into something sinful. It feels good. Right now, that’s enough.

I’d prefer tenderness, but I’m sturdy—I can handle roughness. The moment that thought takes shape, nausea curdles in my stomach.

And in the brief calm that follows, my mind drifts to her—

That nun. Overdose of Excessive Exposure.

In the game, she was forgettable. A villain spewing evil under the name of good. A Class-A threat plotting to revive the final boss, a subordinate of the model demon, Demoniqus… She harassed the protagonists a few times, then vanished, caught in the commander’s massacre event. A minor nuisance boss—the Kandata of this world, if you will.

I could take her. One-on-one, at least.

According to Ameshoku, Demoniqus is still contained by the "Corporation." Without its support, I could drag the fight out. A battle of attrition would favor me—my healing and defense outstrip hers.

But even if I win, it won’t matter.

It’s not like I can just march up and challenge them whenever I want.

…But.

If I defeat that woman, could I at least delay the Exemplary Demon Demonix’s plans?

Demonix. The prelude to this world’s final boss. A 魔王-like figure standing just before the Great Demon King. The being that makes contracts with humans, twisting subjective values into objective ones—the literal "Devil’s Bargain."

They are the source of so much despair.

Offering to turn a starving child’s mother into food. Proposing to transform a dying soldier’s comrade into a weapon of destruction. They don’t just break people—they convert them into pawns. A textbook exemplary demon.

If I could hinder them, even slightly, maybe it’d be worth it. If I could take down Demonix, maybe the final boss would never even revive.

But as long as the Commander is colluding with Overdose, I won’t have the Army’s support. No—worse. They’ll actively get in my way. Under those conditions, victory is nearly impossible.

Like this, I continue to drift, pointlessly lost in thought.

Distracting myself.

"…………"

…This isn’t the time for this.

I was supposed to meet him after school—but outside the window, the sky is pitch black.

I’m too late. He must’ve given up and left.

Once again, I disappeared without a word. Broke my promise.

Maybe he hates me now. It’d be better if he did.

I don’t want him to.

My thoughts sludge together. I have to do something. The frustration only grows.

…There’s still time before the main story begins.

He should have waited a little longer for me.

He should have given me time to let go.

It’s not like I ever thought I could be happy.

I’d never be so presumptuous as to expect the protagonist to like me.

Someone as disgusting as me doesn’t deserve his love.

I know I have no right—not when I’ve failed to save so many who should have been saved.

So I’ll give up.

I’ll give up.

I’ll give up.

I will give up.

Just…

A little more.

Let me indulge in this warmth—just a little longer.

Let me keep pretending, just for a while, to be that pitiable, lovable girl—the fake heroine who yearns for him, who is adored by him.

So—

"—!"

—Suddenly, the Army’s communicator rings.

I grab it on reflex, respond, and move out—muscle memory carrying me to the Army’s base.

The night wind is cold. My head clears.

The city is quiet. The distant downtown glitters.

This provincial town I’ve protected so many times. The people I’ve failed over and over.

Even now, in this world, in this city—someone, somewhere, is hurting.