The Appointment
You have an appointment with me, you know.
Most game characters are designed from the ground up with unrealistically perfect appearances that couldn’t possibly exist in the real world. Especially when their looks are crafted to be idealized.
Fans of certain characters would go so far as to cosplay them, pouring their affection into meticulously recreating every detail. But no matter how high the synchronization rate, perfectly mirroring the original was nearly impossible.
It was only natural, really. How could anyone hope to match the flawless forms game companies sculpted from polygons on screen? Our creator made humans imperfect from the start. It was impossible from the beginning for imperfect humans to chase after idols they’d painstakingly crafted to be perfect.
But I was different.
“....”
I stared silently into the mirror. A flawless girl gazed back—no imperfections, no flaws. My now-familiar blue eyes shimmered like threads spun by a god, framed by silver hair that gleamed without a single blemish. My skin was so clear it needed no makeup. Those distinctive irises held a cold, hypnotic pull that could trap someone for hours just staring. I finally understood what it meant to be enchanted. Funny that I was enchanted by myself, but whatever.
If this was how I felt in my own body, what must others experience?
“Would you like to try on something else?”
The shop owner, who’d been beaming at me with an unnervingly wide smile since I arrived, asked the moment our eyes met. Her gaze reminded me of a snake eyeing a frog—though I’d never actually seen a snake, that’s the impression it gave.
I nodded again without thinking. My mistake had been walking into the store in the first place. They’d offered half-price on everything, and before I knew it, I was trapped in a shopping spiral. I’d come to the mall to buy clothes before meeting my prospective editors. As a boss, I couldn’t show up in a hoodie and track suit. From an employee’s perspective, a disheveled employer would inspire zero trust.
So here I was, changing clothes in the fitting room for who-knows-how-many rounds. When I’d asked for recommendations, her eyes lit up like she’d found a doll to dress up. I’d never enjoyed shopping, even as a guy—I usually capped dates with my girlfriend at one or two hours. I was tired now, but not too tired to keep going.
“Do you like it, customer?”
After all the hassle of changing, seeing the results in the mirror made it feel worth it. Fashion completes the face, they say. Anything I wore looked beautiful.
I started trying on outfits like I was outfitting Camilla’s avatar in Abyss. Pretty. So pretty.
“Hehe…”
A silly laugh escaped me as I stared at my reflection. No, this is bad. I’ll become a shopping addict. But what could I do? I’d already spent a fortune on Camilla’s limited-edition skins in Abyss, collecting every single one. Now she was real. How could I resist spoiling my own character? I almost resented myself for not shopping more before. Screw it. I’ll just buy Camilla clothes and blow the money. I can earn more later. If I’m this satisfied, not spending would be stupid. Everyone spends on hobbies, right? Starting today, this is my hobby and entertainment.
“You look so beautiful! Are you taking that outfit home?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a moment. I’ll wrap everything else for you.”
The owner hummed a tune as she packed my clothes into shopping bags. I handed over my card with a light heart. It hurt to spend, but this felt reasonable. People earn money to spend it, right? Besides, this was for a professional reason—buying clothes to look dignified as a boss hiring employees. Yeah, this wasn’t for selfish desires. I just didn’t have clothes. I couldn’t show up looking sloppy to meet people. I’d need these outfits anyway to live in this body…
I nodded at my reflection once more.
***
Truthfully, deciding to meet the editors in person hadn’t been easy. I’d hesitated for many reasons, but my changed appearance weighed heaviest. How would my editor candidates react to someone who looked exactly like a game character?
After agonizing over it, I finally acted.
-Doors opening.
The rattling train halted, and the doors slid open with a hiss. It was a weekend afternoon, so the subway wasn’t empty. I squeezed through the crowd toward the exit, and the number of people staring at me was staggering. A young man bumped my shoulder and frowned—then froze, eyes wide, when he saw my face. Of course. Even in a hoodie and track suit, I’d drawn glances. Now, properly dressed, it’d be weirder if people *didn’t* look.
There were middle-aged men sneaking peeks at my chest and hips, a schoolgirl gaping at my profile, and a guy blushing furiously as he shuffled past. Camilla’s senses picked up all of it effortlessly, like a radar. I couldn’t help smiling. At first, this hyper-awareness made me dread going out—everywhere I went, I felt eyes on me. But I couldn’t stay cooped up forever. I wasn’t a big fan of going out anyway, but choosing not to go and having no choice at all felt completely different. Time solved most things, so I forced myself to go out more, and gradually, the stares became bearable. Burnout didn’t suit me.
I replied to the messages from my editor candidates as I walked. The meeting spot was a café halfway between our three homes. I’d worried about distance, but it turned out we all lived relatively close. I was the first to arrive.
According to my phone’s map, I had one more block to go. The café’s exterior was coming into view when—
“Excuse me.”
A voice. I turned to see who it was.
“Oh. Wow, sh—”
I’m getting nervous—
It was a man I’d never seen before. He froze, eyes trembling, as he muttered under his breath. I sighed inwardly. This was just another step in getting used to people’s stares.
His next move was predictable. He’d approach, hold out his phone, and ask for my number.
“You’re exactly my type. Could I have your number?”
Just as expected. My response was rehearsed.
“I’m sorry.”
I bowed without hesitation. Experience had taught me that firm rejections worked best.
But his reaction surprised me.
“Ah, you really are my type, but could you please give me your number?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just once. Come on. I’ll text you. Let’s meet once. I’ll buy you dinner. No, how about coffee right now? I know a nice café nearby—”
Camilla’s beauty was undeniable, but her expressionless face often read as cold. A cool beauty, like a rose with thorns. This was the first time someone had pushed this hard after a firm rejection.
He was handsome, so he probably felt confident. Too bad he’d picked the wrong person.
“I have plans right now. I can’t give you my number.”
After several cold rejections, his demeanor shifted instantly.
“...You’re really acting high and mighty.”
“What did you say?”
“Saying you have plans is obviously a lie. You just don’t want to give me your number. Is it that hard to ask for a number?”
He scowled, pouting like he’d been offended. I was the one who felt absurd. Why was he clinging to someone who’d said no?
“No, I really do have plans. And what do my plans have to do with—”
“Oh, who are you meeting? You’re lying because you don’t have plans!”
He was being annoying. If I ignored him, he might do something drastic. I was wondering how to get rid of him when—
“You have an appointment with me, you know, this person.”
A deep voice came from my side. It was unfamiliar, a voice I’d never heard before. I turned, and my eyes widened.