My Wife (Not Anymore)

I hate spoilers.

I like to think of myself as a true person of culture for this age, the sort who enjoys movies, dramas, novels, and games without minding the genre—but the moment I get spoiled, every scrap of anticipation I had for that work vanishes. It is the same way I lost all desire to watch a certain twist movie after I stumbled, while idly browsing a forum, across the line ■■■■ is the killer.

That particular taste shaped my cultural life as I grew up. Going to the theater, I never looked up anything beyond the trailer. Once I had a drama I was following, I guarded the live broadcast like a fanatic, terrified of being spoiled at school the next day. And when the release of a game I had been waiting for drew near, I cut myself off entirely—from the forums I loved and from the video sites alike.

Where is the fun in that, you ask? You don't know what you're talking about. True fun is born of experiencing a thing wholly, without a single piece of prior knowledge, knowing nothing, still in a state of tabula rasa.

Imagine there is a scene that might as well announce, You are supposed to cry here. You have already watched it once in a YouTube guide, once more in a playthrough by a streamer you like, and then, years later, you buy it on sale and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠watch it again. Can a person like that really shed honest tears in that moment?

But me? Set me down in front of it as a blank page, with no idea what scene is about to leap out from where, and I can bawl my eyes out just fine. That is all I am saying.

So, to put it plainly: as a rule, I do not pull that beta-male nonsense of studying a guide before I play, or hunting down how to unlock this route or that.

And what if not knowing means I eat a hit? Then I eat the hit. Taking the hit while you still don't know a thing—that is playing according to the developer's intent. I watched The Sixth Sense without the slightest idea of the twist.

Anyway. That day was an ordinary day, no different from any other: the evening routine of getting off work, coming home, washing up, eating dinner, starting the laundry, and then, as naturally as breathing, sitting down in front of the computer.

Scouring a store page for today's feeding is a sacred duty when you are a one-man deep-sea expedition into indie games. This is, after all, an age of glut, in which the rise of LLMs means hundreds of garbage games flood the market every single day—and at the same time, the more of those games there are, the further the average quality sinks. An age of pure, uncut disaster. Poverty in the midst of plenty, you might call it.

The game I happened to find that day, Oxenbridge Repetition, looked like a hidden pearl, still catching the light even in a heap of trash like that.

Indie-game special: anything tagged Psychological Horror is either a masterpiece or complete dogshit. A glance at the user-review score suggested this one was, mercifully, closer to masterpiece than to dogshit. I had never seen the developer or the publisher in my life, but I trusted the three hundred or so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠people who had played it before me and bought it on the spot. It happened to be thirty percent off, which helped.

Heart fluttering, I downloaded the game and hit play, and—true to that Atmospheric tag—an aggressively on-the-nose indie opening began to roll. The usual tension-mongering dissonance from the strings, and, out of a pitch-black screen, an epigraph in white letters slowly fading in.

The hell was that, you weeb.

And right on cue, a prompt crept into the right-hand corner of the screen.

Perfect. I held down B on the pad and skipped it. Title screen. Straight to New Game. Then the character-creation screen.

Sadly, it did not support the full customization that lets you build a character from nothing. What greeted me instead were three face portraits. Pick one of three presets and play as them, it seemed.

Let's see. One hulking slab of a pretty boy, muscle on muscle, the sort the beefcake crowd loses its mind over. One slender pretty boy, the sort only the twink enthusiasts would ever choose. And last, a beautiful woman—the choice any man is obviously obligated to make.

I selected the woman at once. A male gamer picking the female character is just common sense, isn't it? The moment I hit select, the guys' portraits slid away into the dark, and in their place her character sheet and background entry glided in.

I gave it a rough once-over.

Hm.

They say that give a yellow dog three years and even it starts chanting scripture. Stack enough games, movies, dramas, comics, anime, novels, web novels, light novels, and webtoons on top of one another, and the appraisal spills out on its own.

Yeah. I see your level.

A ridiculous reservoir of holy power, tucked under a baggy nun's habit and trotted out now and then so you remember it is there. Shy and introverted, but once you actually get close, noble enough to throw ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠herself away for her companions. A street orphan with a painful past, and therefore helpless against everyone else's sob stories. Somewhere in the mid-to-late story, a saintess awakening in the middle of certain death.

Important: purity. Very important: a virgin.

That was the model, plain as day. Good. Anastanya. As of today, I appoint you my wife. Be honored.

Mm. Looking at her that way, I started to have doubts. A heroine built like this hits better as a romanceable companion than as the protagonist. Even now, should I hit Back and pick a guy, like a gay? Or not?

Tsk—! What the hell kind of thought was that, me?

I scolded my own weakness and hauled my head back on straight. A male character? The Back button? Slip up, and I might actually end up taking it from behind, like a real one. For a second I felt the fear crawl up my spine. No. Absolutely not. I am one hundred percent, uncut, a lover of women!

I mashed the start button in a panic.

I hit A, and the portrait and character sheet of my wife, Anastacia, melted away into a pitch-black background. Then, all at once, everything in front of my eyes went black.

"No, wait..."

And with that, it cut to black.

In a pitch-black dark where not a single light existed, I saw the ✠ mark blinking in the lower left of my vision. And then, black again.

How much time had passed? From the middle of my unconscious mind, I heard bright bossa-nova jazz ringing out—a duet of trumpet and saxophone, trading a melody that bounced cheerfully up and down. In the center of my blackened vision, letters slid out and assembled themselves into sentences.

What the fuck is this. A dream?

But it was far too vivid to be a dream. I didn't need to check. I knew it was real. In a darkness where nothing else existed, every one of my senses and instincts was screaming that this was reality.

I pressed confirm in my mind, and the letters squirmed and seeped back into the dark. The jazz moved on into the next section, and a snare drum rolled out. Drrrrrr—boom! Crash! With a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bright little ta-da, an enormous slab of text popped into being and filled my vision.

The jumpscare came out of nowhere. I flinched, my whole body jerking, and I woke. My eyes flew open on their own.

…Oh, please.

The instant they opened, I squeezed them shut again. I wanted to deny reality. I couldn't. A creaking, groaning sound; the feel of my body rocking in time with it; even the touch of a light, cool breeze. All of it was unbearably vivid. I drew a deep breath and opened my eyes again.

Where I had woken was not the computer desk in my room, but the inside of a large coach. A rough-looking man in the front seat spoke to me.

"Hey. You there, little nun. Finally awake, huh. Said you were headed for the magic academy, didn't you? We're nearly there, so get ready to hop off."

A professional yellow dog by now, I understood the situation at once.

Ah.

Ah, fuck.

Out of nowhere, I had possessed into a game I didn't know. And, as a bonus, I had become a woman.

"Motherf..."

Even my voice was unbearably thin and frail, exactly like Anastacia's—my wife, not anymore. If I had known it would turn out like this, I would have just shut my eyes and picked the male character. In the lethal coin flip between becoming gay and becoming a woman, the price of choosing wrong once was far too cruel.

My face crumpled all on its own. So did the face of the man up front, who had kindly let me know it was time to get off, only to be answered with a mouthful of filth. He looked like he had just bitten into shit.

Correction.

Every game with the Psychological Horror tag is dogshit. That much is now certain.