Secretly Rubbing Your Clit Right Here?
This is not amnesia. I must remember. I—
I stopped walking and sank into thought, turning over once more the many hypotheses I had already built.
The first that rose to mind was, of course, possession. Simple, seductive, and clean.
The sheer vividness of my previous life’s memories made this one feel the most plausible. If it were true, everything fell neatly into place. The original owner of this body had, for whatever reason, swapped souls with me, and in his final moments he had left this note behind. In that case all I needed to do was adapt to this world and freely enjoy the outrageous good fortune that had fallen into my lap. A comforting conclusion.
But what if it wasn’t true?
The moment the question formed, the anxiety I had been forcing down began to crawl back up. I ran through the other possibilities.
A virtual reality?
If everything around me was an elaborately constructed simulation, there was nothing I could do about it. The more I considered the idea the more helpless it made me feel, so I discarded it early.
Next came dissociative identity. The possibility that a brain shattered by extreme trauma had created a new personality—“me”—as a form of self-protection. In that case the note would be a desperate scrap left by the original self. The theory had its own persuasive force; unlike possession or virtual reality, it was at least grounded in something real. Yet aside from the scrap of paper there was no solid evidence. If it were true, I would need professional counseling. The academy surely had a psychological support center for men; once I had a free moment it wouldn’t hurt to stop by.
And then the final possibility—the worst-case scenario that sent a chill down my spine just to think about it.
Someone had tampered with my memories.
Without my knowledge I had become the test subject of some organization or government, and a personality package labeled “me” had been injected into my brain. The original Kim Sihyuk might have realized that horrifying truth and, with the last of his strength, left behind a trace of resistance.
It sounded absurd, yet the hypothesis still carried weight. What troubled me most was the cult Chaerin had mentioned—the group that had been caught trying to brainwash men. From the diary it seemed the original Kim Sihyuk had attended their gatherings a few times as a child. Of course he would have thought of it as nothing more than an innocent community… yet something about it felt ominous.
If my memories really had been rewritten…
My heart dropped into my stomach.
What was I supposed to do now?
Should I dig deeper into the note’s contents? What exactly had the “original Kim Sihyuk” been so desperate to remember? Should I quietly investigate the cult? Or pretend I knew nothing and simply keep living the way I had been?
Two paths tangled and crossed inside my head: the road that pursued the truth, and the road that settled for daily sex and comfortable denial.
If I chose the truth?
I would have to scour the library for material on the cult, carefully track down anyone connected to it, and reconstruct the original Kim Sihyuk’s past movements in search of any other traces he might have left. But wouldn’t that look suspicious to anyone watching? A guy who until recently had been wandering around amnesiac after an accident suddenly playing detective and obsessively digging into something? It would be wildly unnatural, his purpose written all over his face.
“…Huh?”
Right then it hit me—an icy prickle along the back of my neck, as if someone were standing right behind me.
I was missing something crucial.
I hurriedly rewound every thought I had formed, conscious or not, and examined them one by one. The plans I had just made—what was the criterion by which I judged whether those actions would succeed?
It all hinged on one condition: that I was not discovered.
Not discovered… by whom?
The question chased its own tail and dragged me straight to the worst possible conclusion. There was only one answer.
I must not be discovered by “them”—the ones who had rewritten my memories and created the person I was now.
Suppose I were the kind of person who would undertake something as massive as rewriting a man’s memories. Would I simply leave my carefully prepared test subject alone after that? Wouldn’t I want to check whether he was adapting to the new environment, whether any unexpected bugs had appeared, whether everything was still running according to plan?
Would they really not be watching?
The idea landed like a spark in a barrel of oil and instantly swallowed my entire mind. I glanced around without thinking. No one. The quiet path held only me. But could I be certain? Could I swear there were no cameras or microphones in the house I lived in, the classrooms I sat in, the paths I walked, even the bathrooms? Could I swear that none of the countless women who approached me were “them”?
I could not be certain of any of it.
The more I thought, the shorter my breath became. I felt like a lab rat sealed inside a giant experimental chamber. Every action, every expression—hell, even the state of my erection—might be streaming live onto some distant monitor.
So what the hell was I supposed to do?
Confusion flooded my skull. Should I keep a low profile? Feign ignorance, act clumsy, stay as invisible as possible? But was that the right answer?
No. Wait.
I had been thinking about this completely wrong.
If “they” had created me, what kind of man would they have wanted me to be? What personality had they injected into my brain? Almost certainly a man who would adapt perfectly to this gender-reversed world—who would lust after women more greedily than anyone and chase pleasure without restraint.
So what if I suddenly started avoiding women? What if I refused sex?
That would be the clearest possible signal I could send them—the signal that I had figured out the truth. And then everything would be over. I had no idea what measures they might take. My memories might be wiped again and replaced with an entirely different personality. Or every time I got close to the truth, my personality might simply be edited a little more. The thought alone made me dizzy.
“Haa…”
Worse still, I had no way of knowing whether I was even the first Kim Sihyuk.
Playing it safe was not the answer. The opposite was. To survive I had to act even more perfectly. I had to behave like someone who had never found the note, like someone who knew nothing at all. Just as I had been doing until now, I had to refuse no sex, devour the pleasure right in front of me, and perform the role of a man who had adapted flawlessly to this world—so thoroughly that not even a trace of suspicion remained.
But… how long would I have to keep this up?
How long would I have to live in fear that someone might be watching me?
My head throbbed. Extreme stress brought a crushing headache. The best I could do right now was keep casually pursuing women while gathering whatever information I could about the truth. Would I have been happier if I had never found the note at all?
Standing still only made the pain worse. It felt as though someone were driving a hammer into my skull—an almost terrifying intensity of agony.
And then—
“Haa… nngh…!”
From somewhere nearby came a woman’s faint, breathy moan.
The moment that lewd little sound slipped into my ear, the headache vanished as if it had never existed. In the space where the pain had been, a hot rush of excitement flooded in. I didn’t even have time to wonder why the headache had disappeared. Like a beast in heat I followed pure instinct and started walking toward the source of the sound.
It came from a narrow, deserted pocket of space behind the gymnasium, hidden between an old storage shed and the wall—somewhere no one would ever find unless they deliberately came looking.
I approached quietly and rounded the corner. The sight that met my eyes was unbelievable.
Baek Hayeon.
Skin as white as snow, silvery-white hair that swayed with every movement—an appearance so unreal she barely seemed to belong in this world. And the one girl who, during this morning’s class, had been the only one to refuse the practical exercise of fondling with my cock; the female student who suffered from the delusion that she was a man.
A post I had once seen online floated up in my memory. There were more women than you might think who, like Baek Hayeon, insisted they were men and struggled with the corresponding mental illness. Most of them refused to learn fondling or sex techniques at the marriage academies, lived alone in quiet isolation, and eventually died of loneliness.
Anyway—Hayeon had yanked open the top that had been tightly binding her large breasts and was leaning back against the wall.
“Haa… hngh… hh…!”
Her loose pants and men’s boxer briefs lay discarded on the ground. Both of her hands were covering the pussy between her legs.
She swallowed hard, stared down at her own sex, and brought a finger to her outer lips.
“Huuah…”
A pleased little sigh slipped from her mouth. Just as I had confirmed during the physical exam, her entire body was a mass of erogenous zones. The mere touch of a fingertip to her pussy made her breathe out hotly and release a thin trickle of love juice.
She toyed with her outer lips a few more times, then stopped, conflict written across her face. Apparently just lightly stroking the entrance wasn’t giving her enough pleasure.
“J-just a light touch should be okay… right?”
With a tense expression she moved her trembling fingers, as carefully as if she were approaching some unknown creature for the first time, and guided them up to her clitoris. At last the tip of her finger made contact with that swollen little nub.
“Ugh…! H-hiiiiiit…!”
—Psssh! Psshtssht!
A huge moan tore out of her and her back arched so hard it left the wall. From between her legs came a wet spraying sound as clear liquid jetted out like a fountain. Hayeon clamped a hand over her mouth a second too late; the moan had already long since escaped.