Awakening in Chains – The Start of My TS Life
I'm so tired I could die. Did I drink last night? Nah, I don't think so. So why the hell am I awake when I'm this exhausted? No mosquitoes buzzing, no cicadas droning on annoyingly—there's no reason to wake up.
I keep my eyes closed and think. It's quiet all around. My one-room rental, chosen more for the peaceful neighborhood than fancy amenities, is naturally silent. But damn, I'm beat. Still, I can't skip the raid I grinded after work just to crash. If I let work stress build up, sleep it off, and repeat that hamster wheel, I'd be no different from a machine.
Work drains every ounce of energy—vacations barely recharge me, let alone trips anywhere, and my friends are the same. So my escape is limited to home hobbies. For me, that's gaming. I can't ditch my one outlet for stress, so I boot up the PC even if it means skimping on sleep.
It's not like those surveys labeling gamers as addicts wasting time and money for validation or escapism. I just lack the time and stamina for other hobbies, so I play what suits my tastes.
I crashed around 2 a.m., probably. How many hours till work? I need to be up by six to eat breakfast, so I crack my eyes to check the clock. Every ten minutes past six means sacrificing something: breakfast, shower, face wash. Miss the next, and I'm late, scrambling for excuses.
My vision's blurry; focus won't settle, so I rub my eyes and lift my hand. No sensation—must've slept on it funny, arm crushed under me. Bracing for the pins-and-needles rush as blood flows back, I try to roll over. My body sways unsteadily, and chains rattle with a clank.
Like iron links scraping stone. Puzzled, I stare blearily in that direction. Blinking to focus, I see pale, slender arms shackled to the wall. No muscles to speak of. Following that arm down: flawless white shoulders, perky breasts, long black hair draped over them...
Reality crashes in. I jerk back, but ankle manacles halt me. This is fucked. I'm in a body that's not mine. I've read enough fantasy novels to know this is possession—soul-swap bullshit. But starting as a prisoner? Overkill. No truck crash, no goddess encounter—nothing.
"Ivy-nim! Ivy-nim! Are you okay?"
A familiar girl's voice hits, confirming the nightmare. Voice chat staple, our guild mascot and raid main DPS. And she called my character's name.
"Han...byeol...nim..."
My throat rasps like it's splitting; that's all I manage naming the mage. Shaking off the haze, I turn toward the voice. A blonde girl, tears streaming, shackled like me to the wall.
I never obsessed over others' customizations, but voice, hair, age—matches our raid mage. She dressed her character skimpy, so even without focus, an hour of daily raids burned it in.
Realization sinks me; I drop my head. Game laws or not, she's underage, knows I'm a guy. No way am I ogling her naked and risking a harassment rap. Best avert eyes before she notices. Her scrawny, flat frame's no temptation anyway.
My own character, customized to taste—voluptuous chest at least. ...Not thrilling. Spent three hours tweaking, then ignored it. Back view's constant, face only sparks joy with new gear morphs. Affection? Sure, it's my tool. No identity fusion, so this feels like eyeing a nude still life, not arousal.
"What do we do? Mana restraints block my spells. Ivy-nim, it's really you, right? I'm not the only one possessed?"
Ah, she's in the game too. Terrifying. She woke first, realized our chains. Hasn't been long, from her tone.
I nod weakly and rasp, "Why are we locked up?"
"No idea. Woke up in prison. No status, no inventory... Feels like a real fantasy world, not the game."
"Hey, ladies, finally awake?"
A sleazy-faced man approaches the bars, eavesdropping. Not a castle dungeon—our nudity, his ragged clothes scream bandits or slavers. Fantasy cliché, easy to grasp, hard to swallow.
Hanbyeol immediately shrieks for release. He grins unpleasantly.
"Heh, still clueless? This'll be fun to break you."
"What the hell?!"
He unlocks the bars, enters. Hanbyeol thrashes chains futilely—wall-bound. He bypasses her near the door, lunges at me, fist flying.
Modern folks avoid violence. Kid scraps aside, adult punches risk ruin. Pain's usually headaches or gut aches. No tolerance here.
I shriek shrilly, curling instinctively—but chains prevent it. Breath catches; no scream escapes. Gut punches pile on, choking gasps. He smirks at Hanbyeol.
"Keep yapping."
"Hit me instead, you bastard...!"
Head down, gasping, I can't see her face, but her gritted curses are clear. Lewd chuckle, then agony slams my belly again. I wail involuntarily, blacking out.
Regaining senses: he's getting pummeled. Sprawled, kicked by his buddies. One spots my eyes open, signals. Beating stops.
"Was gonna pound till you woke. Lucky bastard."
Grovelling, he limps off. Rough-faced guy enters, inspects me. Forces mouth open, twists head, pries legs apart crudely. Terror over shame; I resist, but gut pain saps strength, chains chafe wrists.
"Feel like puking blood? Broken bones?"
"My stomach hurts..."
"If you can talk, you'll heal in days. Merchandise fine."
No bandage? Just cold appraisal. He turns to Hanbyeol, unchaining her limbs. She flails wildly; he pins her punch effortlessly, drags her.
"Can't bring damaged goods to boss. You're subbing."
Boss. Bad vibes. Naked captives dragged there? Obvious fate. Hanbyeol senses it, screams resistance—futile.
I speak. "Take me instead."
Not impulse. Two years raiding together, faceless friends regardless of age—but no heroism for her doom. My survival's iffy; can't babysit hers.
"Boss likes 'em vicious. You're roughed up—worth subbing for her?"
I shake head. "She's just a kid."
"...For real? That body?"
"Ivy-nim...?"
His disbelief; I nod calmly. Hanbyeol gapes, resistance forgotten.
Not adult duty or cheap justice. Pity? Eyes shut, realizing I'm in my priestess—healer, faith/spirit stats maxed for role. Grants calm? Explains volunteering.
Real me? Might've ignored her. Cowardly office drone. Character pushed me—but spilled milk. Body recalls skills; faint incantation warms gut, dulls pain.
His face impassive, re-chains Hanbyeol, approaches. "Your choice."
"I know."
"Ivy-nim..."
Her sob fades as I follow. Unlike with her, gentle grip on arm. Steady if I wobble, but cold glares—no abuse.
Blunt question: "Scared?"
Body trembles—now I notice. Could blame nudity in chill, but nod silently.
"No regrets?"
"None."
Unreadable stare, then walks on. Destination soon: rough wood door. Knock; low voice inside.
"Send the girl in alone."
"Yes, boss."
He retreats, nods at door. Heart pounds imagining horrors; deep breath, turn knob.
Boss room tidy. Expected grimy slaver den—stone floors everywhere—but classy: polished desk, black leather sofa. Sharp-featured man lounges, eyes raking me top to bottom.
"Not bad. Over there."
Points unseen. Hesitate entering; pusher shoves. Bed visible: ropes, restraints, whips, video-only toys. Blood drains from face.
Those inside me...? Brief pause—something whips thigh. No dodge; scream. He snaps coldly.
"Priestess, right? Heal freely. Disobey, regret it."
"G-got it."
Heal thigh's bone-crack pain, head to bed. Back explodes.
"Agh!"
"Dirty feet on my bed? Shower first—there's the stall."
Trembling till pain ebbs, recover, scan. Glass shower, fully visible. Naked already, doomed anyway—fuck it. Grit teeth, avoid his gaze, enter. No further pain, mercifully.
Washing, dread looms. High spirit stat? No despair. Fine, virginity's expendable. Survive first. If I break, Hanbyeol's next. Living means revenge chance.