My name is Gen Nanami. I'm sixteen years old, and I go to Shujin High. If hell had a branch office on Earth, it would be my school. Every morning, I wake up knowing I have to endure another day of humiliation, and every night, I pray I won't wake up at all.
I'm ugly. Not just "unattractive" or "below average." No, I'm ugly as hell. My face is an all-you-can-eat buffet for acne, my hair is a greasy mess no shampoo can fix, and my nose looks like it lost a fight with a brick wall. No matter what I do, I can't escape it. I am the loser. The outcast. The human punching bag of Shujin High.
This morning is no different.
I wake up to my alarm screeching like a banshee. My crusty eyes open, and I drag myself to the bathroom. One look in the mirror and my soul leaves my body.
"WHYYYYYY?!"
I scream in a mix of rage and despair. My reflection is like a cruel joke from the gods. As I rub my face in frustration, my fingers graze a fresh pimple on my cheek.
POP.
White-hot pain shoots through my eye. I stumble back, clutching my face like I've been stabbed. Great. Just what I needed. I slap a bandage on my cheek, throw on my uniform, and drag myself to school.
The moment I step onto campus, I can feel it—the weight of a hundred eyes drilling into me.
"Look, the pig is here."
"Yo, check out that bandage. I think his acne exploded."
Snickers ripple through the crowd. I keep my head down, my ears burning as their words stab into me like daggers. I pretend I don't hear them.
Even the teachers don't acknowledge me. It's like I don't exist unless someone needs to dump their frustrations on a convenient target. I used to wonder why they never stepped in, but now I know better—people don't care about weaklings. They ignore what's uncomfortable.
I slide into my seat in class, resting my head on the desk. The first paper ball hits the back of my head. Then another. And another. I don't react. If I do, it'll just get worse.
"Oi, Piggy, wake up!"
A hand slaps the back of my head. I grit my teeth but don't look up. If I meet their eyes, they'll have even more of a reason to torment me.
I wait for the bell to ring, drowning out the laughter around me.
But then, lunch—my one escape. The only time of day I get a little peace.
I pull out my bento, the comforting sight of okonomiyaki and hamburg steak filling me with a tiny shred of joy. Just as I lift my chopsticks—
"Hey, Piggy."
I freeze.
Ichika Matsumoto.
She's been popular since elementary school, and that popularity has only grown stronger over the years. Boys worship her, practically foaming at the mouth for a scrap of her attention. And she knows it. She commands them like a queen ruling over her kingdom of simps.
She smirks down at me, arms crossed. Her posse of lackeys giggle behind her.
"You're not gonna eat all that, are you?"
I say nothing.
I already know where this is going.
She snatches my bento, inspecting it like some high-class food critic.
"Thanks, Piggy. I was feeling kinda hungry."
She walks away, my food in her hands. The moment she's gone, my stomach twists in pain—not from hunger, but from helplessness. Fighting back is pointless. If I so much as breathed in her direction, one of her loyal simps would beat me half to death in her honor.
I sit there, silent.
Laughter erupts around me as I stare at the empty desk in front of me. My stomach growls, and I clench my fists under the table. I hate this. I hate them. But most of all, I hate myself for not doing anything.
I barely make it to the bathroom before the tears spill over. I lock myself in a stall, biting my lip to keep my sobs from escaping. But it's no use.
"Hey, the pig's crying."
"So pathetic."
Their voices echo outside, each word another punch to my gut. I stay there until the final bell rings, unwilling to face the world again. When I finally leave, the halls are empty. I make my way home, shoulders heavy, throat dry.
As I walk, I pass a convenience store and see my reflection in the window. I stop. Stare.
I can't take it anymore.
I grab the hood of my jacket and yank it over my head, blocking out the sight of my own face. It doesn't help. The image of my ugly, miserable self is burned into my mind.
I curl up under my blanket, trembling. My entire body shakes with rage, humiliation, and desperation. My hands clutch the fabric as I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I wish... I wish I was handsome."
Then, with all the determination I can muster, I whisper—
"I'll show them. I'LL SHOW THEM."
The next morning, my alarm clock barely has time to ring before my hand slams it into silence. I groggily drag myself to the bathroom, rubbing my face.
I blink.
I blink again.
My hands tremble as I touch my skin. Smooth.
I lean in. My reflection is unrecognizable. Jawline? Sharp. Skin? Flawless. Hair? Perfectly tousled like I just walked out of a photoshoot.
I flex my arm on instinct. My breath catches in my throat as I see the outline of toned muscle.
What... the hell?
I step back, heart pounding. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like I might explode.
Then, at the top of my lungs, I scream—
"HOLY F*, IS THAT ME?!"**