"Ugh..."
A groan escaped his lips as he twisted beneath the thin blanket, legs tangling in the fabric.
Too short.
He yanked it diagonally, wrapping himself like a burrito, and buried his face into the crook of his arm.
"Sniff… sniff."
His nose twitched. He smelled the thick, musty air.
Probably nothing. Morning problem. He shut his eyes tighter.
But the smell didn't fade. It grew around him, it was this rotting, musty smell, he wanted to ignore, but his skin prickled with unease, and his nose twitched.
Okay… the fuck is that?
His eyes cracked open... half-lidded, disoriented. Darkness.
Not the soft gloom of his bedroom, but a suffocating, ink-black void. No streetlight glow bleeding through the curtains. No hum of the AC. Just… nothing.
Hands fumbled across the mattress.
Where's my phone?
The sheets were damp beneath his fingers, his shirt clinging to his back with cold sweat. He wiped his face, wet. Tears? Sweat?
Then his palm scraped against something hard and cold. Metal.
His breath hitched.
This isn't my bed.
He lurched upright, feet hitting freezing stone.
Where the fuck am I?
"Haa—" His voice scraped out and made his throat hurt as if he'd swallowed glass. He held his neck as if that would soothe him.
Blind, his fingers felt through the darkness... then, smack. A thin cord slapped against his cheek. He seized it, tracing the length until his fingers bumped against a plastic nub. A switch.
He pressed it.
Light exploded—a single, flickering bulb swinging from the ceiling. He groaned, throwing up an arm to cover his eyes as his vision seared white. Slowly, through the gaps between his fingers, the world came into focus.
The room was closed off.
Grey walls. White tiles underfoot, mostly clean. To his left, a partitioned corner. Blue tiles marking a cramped "bathroom": a tap dribbling into a plastic bucket, a drain crusted with grime, and a stained toilet.
Opposite, his "bed"—a narrow cot with a threadbare blanket, its blue sheets with yellowed stains. Two closed drawers sat below it. On the floor, there were stacked mold-caked disposable plates. The stench of rot and mildew clung to the air.
His eyes darted, frantic. No door. No window. Just four walls, the dangling bulb, and the suffocating silence.
What the hell is this place?
The stench hit him hard: sour sweat, rotting food, the cloying musk of unwashed skin. His nose wrinkled as he staggered back, bile rising in his throat.
DAMN, is that me?
He looked down at his hands—or what should have been his hands.
These weren't his.
Veins over thick muscle. Hairy arms. His feet, too broad, calloused, powerful?
He then checked under his pants to check on his lil bro.
Okay. Okay. Still a guy. Small mercies.
A quick check under his pants confirmed it. At least I didn't get downgraded.
In situations like this, I should look for clues...
Clues. I needed clues.
Crouching, he yanked open the drawers. Inside: A thick, leather-bound book, its pages yellowed at the edges. A single pen, ink half-dried. A folded stack of light-blue prison garb—loose pants, a long-sleeved shirt. No boxers. What type of freaky situation am I in? Fantastic... just fantastic.
Bars of cheap soap, their wrappers peeling. Four toothbrushes, still sealed. Tubes of paste, squeezed to the last drop.
That was it. No weapons. No keys. No fucking answers. The stench clung to him, thick enough to taste. His skin itched with grime. I can't breathe like this.
He grabbed the soap and marched to the partitioned "bath" area.
A pause.
Are there cameras?
He scanned the ceiling, the walls. Nothing.
Not my body anyway. Who cares?
The bucket filled with a trickle of icy water. He dunked his head first, fingers raking through shoulder-length hair, matted, greasy, filthy. The water turned murky instantly.
Not even a fiction like reflection to see my face...
He thought, not being able to see his face properly in the water, he replaced.
His reflection was too vague: Sharp jawline. As he felt through his face... Smooth skin. No beard. Not even stubble.
Pathetic.
He scrubbed furiously, soap foaming as he scoured every inch. Dirt sloughed off in gray water. When his fingers weren't enough, he tore a strip from the stained bedsheet, scraping at his skin until he felt it was enough.
Finally, clean.
How do I dry myself off now?
He looked around. He could use the dirty clothes, but he was too disgusted by the idea. The floor was cleaner. Instead, he snatched the fresh sheet, patting himself down before draping the damp fabric over the headboard.
The mold-caked plates went to the farthest corner, their stench now slightly less oppressive.
Dressed in the stiff new uniform, he stood in the center of the cell.
Now what?
Cleaning had been a distraction. Now, with nothing left to scrub or organize, the silence pressed in like a weight.
He sank onto the thin mattress. The leather-bound book sat heavy in his hands. He cracked it open... Its pages were filled with frantic scribbles. Jagged lines, looping symbols, words that might have been language or just the ravings of a madman.
What the hell is this?
He snapped it shut. Opened it again.
Same shit.
ARE MY EYES DIFFERENT TOO? Could I not read it? Or was it written in a different language?
He grabbed the pen, fingers testing its weight before scrawling the English alphabet across a blank corner of the page.
A. B. C.
The letters stared back, crisp and clear.
Okay. So I can still write. Just can't read whatever nightmare language this is.
He exhaled sharply, tossing the book aside.
Collapsing onto the bed, he stared at the bulb.
Maybe this is a dream. A fucked-up, hyper-realistic nightmare. I should wake up any second now, laughing at how vivid it all felt.
Or.
Maybe it was one of those sick "challenges." Lock a guy in a room, see how long he lasts. Five million dollars if he makes it a year or something. That he could work with. He'd seen the videos—people cracking after weeks, their families begging them to quit.
Pathetic.
He remembered that one guy. Wife sobbing about how their three-month-old needed him. Like the kid would even remember. Like that money wouldn't change their lives more than some half-remembered cuddles.
Bet they were broke. Bet that kid's gonna hate them when he grows up and realizes what they threw away.
HAHAHA...
He closed his eyes.
Just wake up. Or don't. But if this is real—
I'm not losing the challenge.
A dry chuckle escaped him, echoing off the walls.
Come to think of it… what was the last thing I was doing? How did I get here?
His mind raced, trying to get through the fog...
I CAN'T REMEMBER ANYTHING !... no accident, no dramatic betrayal where I slayed the demon king or something? No "Oh God, I'm dying!" moment. Just… nothing. One second, I was Dylan, a perfectly average guy with an okay life—no bullies, no tragic backstory, no secret genius stifled by society. The next?
Prison. In someone else's body. With no goddamn explanation.
This is some shitty transmigration setup.
He barked a laugh, the sound hollow in the stagnant air. Then, just as quickly, his voice died.
Please don't let this be a transmigration.
If some cosmic force had to yoink me into another world, why not dump me as some rich bastard's spoiled heir? A life of silk sheets, 10-course meals, lazy afternoons, and spending daddy's money without a care. But noooo... instead, I got jail. A filthy body, a doorless cube with moldy plates and a bucket for a shower.
Did Truck-kun hit me, and I just… forgot? That does sound plausible.
He frowned.
Wait! Did I piss off some deity gamedev? A petty divine author?
But I barely even gamed. Never left scathing reviews. Sure, he'd been disappointed lately—that one novel, "Only I Have a Growth Class," had gone off the rails at the end. The author massacred a perfectly good character for cheap drama. He hadn't even commented, just closed the tab with a sigh and moved on.
I was letting it marinate, and I'll read later... probably.
But was that enough to—
BZZT.
A blue screen exploded across his vision.
"Faaaaahhh—!"
The word twisted into a croak, his raw throat refusing to cooperate making him feel pain.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me. FUCK!