Keita—or rather, Toru Hazama—couldn't believe his eyes.
Gone was the dingy apartment of his former life. Before him now stood a mansion, towering and gleaming like something out of a rich-girl dating sim. Marble steps, ivy-covered balconies, a fountain that seemed to spray money instead of water—he was rich. Or rather, Toru was rich.
His "father," whom he hadn't met yet, had apparently made his fortune in overseas tech ventures. And he'd recently remarried.
Keita already felt sick.
He had written this exact arc once—when he was spiraling. He'd used it to vent his anger, his loss, his lust. It was meant to mock the absurd fantasy of instant luxury and instant dysfunction.
Now he was living in it.
He stepped into the grand foyer, floor gleaming beneath his shoes. A maid bowed.
"Welcome home, Hazama-sama. Your new mother is waiting in the parlor."
Keita's stomach turned.
New mother.
The words felt cursed.
He followed the maid through a hallway lined with antique paintings and erotic statues (of course), and when he entered the room—
Time stopped.
Sitting on the plush red couch, pouring tea with elegance that felt almost scripted, was a woman in a low-cut black dress.
Young. Voluptuous. Hourglass curves. Red lips. Amber eyes that glimmered under long lashes. A mole under her left eye, and silky dark brown hair cascading over one shoulder.
Reina.
His breath caught in his throat.
She looked exactly like his wife. Or rather, his ex-wife—the woman who had taken their daughter and left him as his dreams crumbled.
But younger. Softer. Idealized.
Reina looked up and smiled.
"Ah, Toru-kun. You're finally home." Her voice dripped with honey and something warmer. "Come give Mommy a hug~"
His soul fled his body.
You wrote this. You made this monster.
Reina stood slowly, letting the tightness of her dress do the work of suggestion. Her chest bounced gently with each step.
Keita took a small, horrified step back. "N-no thank you. I'm good."
"Ara? You don't want to greet your new mother properly?" she asked with a playful pout. "I made cookies, you know. Still warm. Just like me."
"I—I'm lactose intolerant," he blurted.
"That's milk," she whispered, stepping closer. "Cookies are just… soft and gooey."
Stop. Stop. STOP.
But his teenage body had other ideas. Hormones surged like a tidal wave. She was close now—too close. The scent of rose perfume mixed with vanilla hung in the air, a scent he had once loved and now feared.
"Isn't it strange, Toru?" Reina purred, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "It feels like we've known each other a long time. Like we were married in another life."
His knees buckled.
But just before she could press further—
"HEY! Don't get handsy with my brother, you succubus!"
A voice pierced through the erotic fog.
Mika.
She stormed into the parlor like a whirlwind of rage and attitude. Ponytailed, sharp-eyed, blazer slightly open over a crop top she definitely wasn't supposed to wear to school. Legs for days, thigh-high socks, and the classic tsundere scowl.
And when Keita's eyes met hers, his heart stopped.
She looked like his daughter.
Older. Stylized. Anime-fied.
But the eyes, the frown, the wrinkle of her nose when annoyed—it was unmistakable.
He swallowed hard.
"Don't act like you care, pervert," Mika snapped, jabbing a finger at Reina. "I told you, quit trying to seduce him the second he walks in!"
Reina sighed dramatically. "Ara, jealous already? You're just like your real mother was—stingy and no fun."
"I'LL BURN YOUR DRESS," Mika threatened, holding up a lighter she had definitely stolen from the kitchen.
Keita raised both hands. "Can everyone—can we all just calm down?!"
Reina giggled and backed away, hips swaying as she walked. "Of course, Toru-kun. Your room is the second door upstairs. Do come visit me later if you need… motherly guidance."
He didn't respond. Couldn't.
Mika glared at him.
"Don't let her touch you. Her boobs are like cursed talismans. You stare too long, you'll go blind."
He nodded weakly. "I'll wear sunglasses."
Mika rolled her eyes and stormed out. "Whatever. I'm not cooking for you."
That night, Keita lay on his new bed—king-sized, fluffy, and smelling faintly of lavender.
He stared at the ceiling, arm over his eyes.
What is this? What is this punishment?
Reina, the fantasy version of his ex-wife.
Mika, the anime mirror of his daughter.
And he was stuck in the middle, 17 years old, body raging with hormones and a setting designed to break him.
He had written this.
He had created the lewd jokes. The misunderstanding scenes. The oops-I-fell-on-your-chest slapstick. The bath peeking incidents. The forgot-the-towel moments.
And the next arc?
If memory served…
The hot spring episode.
"God help me," he whispered.
Knock knock.
His blood ran cold.
"...Who is it?" he asked, already fearing the answer.
The door creaked open slowly.
It was Mika.
Hair wet. Towel on head. Her shirt clung to her slightly from leftover steam.
She carried a tray.
"…I made you dinner," she muttered, not meeting his eyes.
Keita blinked. "You just said you wouldn't."
She shrugged, cheeks pink. "I changed my mind. Not like I like you or anything, dummy."
She set it down and turned to leave. Then paused.
"Just… don't let Reina get too close," she said quietly.
He looked up.
"She's not your real mom, you know. You don't have to pretend."
And with that, she walked out.
Leaving Keita alone, heart pounding, dinner untouched.
---
He couldn't sleep.
When he finally got up and tiptoed toward the bathroom, he passed Reina's room.
The door was cracked open.
Inside, she was lying on her bed. Silk sheets. Thin nightgown. Reading a manga—his manga—and smiling.
She noticed him.
"Can't sleep, Toru-kun?"
He froze.
She patted the bed beside her.
"Want Mommy to sing you a lullaby?"
He bolted down the hall.
---
This world was sick. Perverse. Wrong.
And he had created every second of it.
But worst of all?
Some part of him—a deep, terrible part—was enjoying it.
---
To be continued