Noah's Ship and a Sister's Unlikely Defiance
Noah from the Bible started building the ark after receiving a revelation from God.
People must have called him crazy.
An old man building a boat, claiming the world would be submerged, when not a drop of rain had fallen.
And not just for a day or two, but for years on end.
I probably would have laughed too.
If the neighbor suddenly started building a boat in his yard, saying the world was ending, even I'd think about calling the cops first.
But Noah did it anyway.
Solely because God said so.
No evidence, nothing happening right in front of his eyes.
He prepared for the end of the world on faith alone.
Come to think of it, I wasn't all that different.
Half of me believed it was real, half doubted it was fake.
These weird alert windows that wouldn't disappear from my sight.
Zombies in 1000 days.
Train slaves.
Grand words, but nothing tangible had materialized yet.
No zombies.
The world was fine.
Customers came to the convenience store, shipments arrived, rent went out, and my sister hunkered down in her room with her phone.
The only change was this one window visible only to me.
That was it.
The internet.
Movies.
Comics.
Novels.
I'd consumed plenty of that stuff.
A guy like me with few relationships probably didn't feel lonely thanks to it.
Even without people, there was plenty to see and hear—endless meaningless videos.
And in that mix, I'd seen this setup a lot.
A system suddenly appears.
Status windows pop up.
The world is ending.
The protagonist freaks a bit at first, then accepts it quick.
Then he gets right to work.
Analyzing status windows, using abilities, gathering people, seizing opportunities.
Even losers like me—virgins, ugly—start that way sometimes.
Pathetic at first, but one system and suddenly they're sharp.
Fear vanishes, action kicks in, they hit on girls smoothly.
Convenient plotting, but when it's my turn, I just scratch my head.
How do they get so certain?
That it's real.
That they're not crazy.
That what they see isn't a hallucination.
If it's all in my head, better to live normally.
Go to work.
Clock out.
Eat.
Sleep.
Back to work.
That routine.
Sounds better.
Twist movies have that twist sometimes.
It was all a dream in the end.
Protagonist's a psycho.
Everything was delusion.
This status window could be the same.
Other people's personal info.
ID details.
Sex counts.
Looks real, but maybe my brain's making up numbers.
No way to verify.
Turning women into slaves? Hilarious.
A shy virgin like me—how?
Oh, got a system.
Time to hit on girls.
This one's got this personality, that past, target this weakness.
Listen to her troubles, solve her problems.
Easy in words.
Works in novels.
Protagonist approaches calmly, unnaturally, hits weak spots, shakes her up, pulls her in.
Planned, brave—unlike real me.
Some go bolder.
Whatever, threaten or force it, then she falls for the power later.
Fine when reading.
But thinking real? Pure anxiety.
What if she screams?
Calls the cops?
CCTV catches it?
One slip, jail time.
Life ruined.
Those protagonists acting on blind faith? Impressive now.
Not me.
No guts.
No girl likes me.
Not even female friends.
Convenience store shifts are solo mostly—no deep bonds.
Part-timer chats at handover.
Customer basics at checkout.
That's it.
How to build from here?
Worst possibility: this is mental illness.
Schizos sometimes don't know they're sick.
Why not me?
I think I'm fine, but crazies think that too.
Logically, one answer.
Act normal.
Live like always.
Safest.
Problem: not that easy.
Not pushing me to act yet.
But ignoring feels off.
Alert just shows dates, waiting for me to move.
That unnerves more.
Reason for slave training must matter—more than I think.
If real.
If real, zoning out like this makes me first zombie chow—screaming extra.
Unnamed role.
Yeah.
Back to Noah.
Twist it: what if Noah was filthy rich?
Building one ark? No biggie.
Still looks crazy.
Eccentric at worst.
Flood comes? Great.
No? Use differently.
Convenient.
I.e.,
No risk.
Or ridiculously low.
Then everything flips.
Why not me?
The world has possibles and impossibles.
Flying? Possible.
Airplanes.
Space travel? Possible.
We've advanced that far.
Lightspeed? No.
Not that I read papers or know the field—just scraps of knowledge.
Still, impossible now.
Maybe later.
Same vibe.
Humans fly.
Board a plane.
But naked to the moon? No.
Physics blocks some.
No need to think—impossible is impossible.
Others: body can, mind blocks.
Heart, really.
Morality prime example.
Sacrifice others to save myself?
Stomp kittens for cash?
Button kills stranger, fills my bank?
Seen online.
Comments same: can't, can, it's a stranger, kittens innocent.
Me? Ambiguous.
Think I could, then face-to-face maybe not.
Or surprisingly easy.
Average folks same.
So I ask myself.
Possible?
Impossible?
"……."
Answer quick.
Possible.
Blood ties no barrier, body won't freeze in front of girl.
Thought that hit: test run?
Well, with noona.
Decision easier than expected.
"..., Hey. Come here."
My voice came out drier than thought.
No humidifier, mouth shut awhile—throat parched.
Blanket beside twitched.
"Uh, wh...? Why?"
"Just come here."
I don't call noona "noona."
Hey.
You.
Casual like that.
Not sibling grudge—long-set hierarchy.
Her being four years older meant zilch.
Been that way since kids.
I call, she comes.
I say, she does.
Dynamic held years.
More now—guardian and dependent.
"Hurry."
Low prompt, blanket rustled faster.
Soon, noona rose slow.
"U, uh...."
She answered but hesitated, not coming straight.
I sat up fully from half-recline.
"What're you doing."
"……."
She crept like a criminal, gauging me.
Didn't matter—knew she was thinking.
Her usual waver annoyed; I reached, yanked her arm.
"Ack!"
Short scream grazed ear, dull thud of her body—ignored.
This position awkward.
"Turn around."
"Wh-why...?"
Sudden force confused her—body stiffened.
Voice quivering in fear.
No answer—instead urged.
"Gonna keep bugging me? Do it."
"..., Uh."
Slightly raised tone.
As always, she folded quick.
Inner chuckle, but no show.
Too dark anyway.
"……."
Noona turned slow, back to me, sat.
Huge like a hill, but frame pure woman.
Taller than me, narrow shoulders—oddly petite feel.
This pig-like noona's a woman too—hit skin-deep; arms out, locked her torso from behind, under armpits.
"Eh...? Uh, uh?"
Squish.
Grabbed her massive tits whole over loose free-size tee.
Status said F-cup.
Definitely big.
Not flab from fat—real breasts.
My hands not small, still couldn't full grip—odd thrill.
Palms filled, insanely soft, yielding flesh.
Thin fabric under, skin scorching hot.
No bra.
Off for sleep?
Never saw pokies, so guessed.
No barriers—heavy weight straight to hands.
Other side rough grab.
"Hahk."
"Oh."
Squeezed, released with pressure—fingers sank, flesh deformed helplessly.
Breasts like this?
Like arm flab? Kinda, but no.
Bigger contact area maybe.
"U-um...."
Buried face in her tense nape.
"Sniiff."
Deep inhale.
Faint shampoo, body wash.
Noona doesn't go out, but not filthy.
Homebody, but showers proper.
House cleaning obsessive too.
Body more so.
Extra hygiene costs, but clean beats dirty.
Nose to skin, soap under her scent mixed in.
Western body odor myth—noona got dad's Korean genes strong here.
No stink—cozy, brain-tingling flesh smell.
"Ah, hurts...!"
Excitement snuck up—squeezed too hard.
Pain? Her hands frantic over mine.
Taller, but smaller hands.
Couldn't wrench—weak, anxious overlay.
"N-no.... Uh, uh."
"Quiet."
"..., Euh."
Flustered, no rebellion.
Honestly, any pushback, I'd quit.
Shove away.
Scream.
Cry resist.
Not that evil.
Not for raping sis, but boundaries exist.
But prediction spot-on—hollow laugh.
"Th-that..., um. Eh, eh?"
"Arms down."
"..., Uh."
Bare tit curious—shoved hand rough under tee hem.
She flinched, grabbed my arm reflex—but froze at order, let go slip.
"……."
Really okay?
Real?
First woman grope, only thought: too easy.
Before man, as brother—sis worrying.