Fetish

Everyone in this world harbors a preference or two they could never openly confess. By that, well... I mean a fetish.

"Phew."

With a resounding blast of trumpets, the enemy base crumbled into ruin. A hard-fought victory secured after a thirty-minute deathmatch.

"Nice."

A faint curve touched the corners of my lips. The taste of victory was sweet as ever. Releasing my grip on the mouse, I stretched my arms high overhead in pure satisfaction.

"Mmmngh...!"

A brief, simple motion, yet the soft, breathy moan that slipped out felt entirely alien. It had been about a month since I woke up in the body of a woman, but sounds like that were something I still couldn't get used to.

"All right, then..."

Even amidst that lingering awkwardness, my hands moved without hesitation. Click, click. Skipping past the victory animation, straight to the post-game lobby.

In that brief instant while the screen transitioned, an excited breath slipped through my parted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lips. Like a child waiting for candy—or perhaps like a beast catching the scent of a treat.

Unlike in-game play, where people rarely typed because they were too busy focusing, the post-game lobby was an absolute battleground of finger-pointing. Our team had won, fortunately, but kind words never came from the losers. It was a dumping ground for raw, repulsive emotional bile that would make any normal person cringe just reading it.

I knew that full well, yet why was I waiting for the lobby screen with such giddy anticipation?

"Heh."

It was a little embarrassing, but... it seemed I—or more precisely, this transformed body of mine—possessed a taste that leaned toward the deeply perverse.

As the loading screen cleared, a feast of colorful profanities welcomed me. The one currently venting his uncontrollable rage was none other than my direct lane opponent from seconds ago.

Doing my best to suppress the twitching grin on my face, I attempted to engage in polite conversation.

As expected, having a rational conversation with someone blinded by pure rage was impossible.

My gaze drifted toward my scoreboard from the match: 2 kills, 1 death, 12 assists. It might have looked a bit unusual for the Watchtower position, which was traditionally meant to spearhead the frontline, but a win was a win.

With the poise of a true victor, my fingers danced across the keyboard once more.

Soon after, the enemy team's (former) Knight player rage-quit the lobby.

"Whew..."

Only then did I sink deep into my chair, letting out the breath I had been holding.

"So good..."

...Why bother hiding it? I love getting flamed.

Victory was sweet, of course, but it was fleeting. Eager to keep the high going, I queued right back into matchmaking.

Yet, despite my eagerness, five minutes crawled by. Then ten. Before I knew it, nearly thirty minutes had passed without a single match popping.

"Sigh."

In other words, I had been granted more than enough idle time to sort through my thoughts.

First, regarding why queue times were so astronomically long, even for the upper echelon of the ladder: I knew the reason only too well. Virtually everyone had blocked me.

To me, it felt profoundly unfair. I had never thrown a game on purpose. In fact, I played my absolute best in every single match, down to the final second.

Yet much like Vincent van Gogh, or Giordano Bruno when he first championed heliocentrism... by presenting a revolutionary new paradigm to the meta, I had suffered social execution in the form of collective matchmaking avoidance.

Pro players blocked me because I "ruined their practice." Regular players blocked me simply because I was "fucking annoying to deal with." And well... maybe a few in-game antics that could be construed as teabagging had contributed, but still.

"People have zero flexibility..."

Watching the queue timer tick past the sixty-minute mark, a heavy sigh escaped me. This was genuinely a crisis. If I couldn't get into a game, where was I supposed to get my dopamine? Who was going to feed my perverse, shadowy desires?

"Aaargh..."

Dangling my feet, which barely brushed the floor, I kicked them in frustration and buried my face in my hands.

Well, to elaborate on my peculiar preferences: it wasn't so much the raw act of being insulted, but rather that intoxicating sensation of I have absolute control over this bastard's emotions!

...Probably. I mean, a person can't just admit they're a plain old masochist who enjoys being cursed at, right?

This was also the exact reason I never intentionally trolled. I did nothing wrong. I played cleanly, had fun, and seized the win. And yet, entirely unable to stomach their own wounded pride and boiling rage, the defeated enemy poured all that thick, venomous bile directly onto me...?

Isn't that a true delicacy?

"Ehehe."

Recalling the previous match brought a broad smile blooming across my face, hopeless queue times notwithstanding. That was why I had to cling to the highest tier at all costs. After all, fiery competitiveness burns brightest in those who possess deep pride and the sheer mechanical skill to back it up.

Besides, isn't that just how personal tastes work? There's no right or wrong when it comes to preferences. Therefore, without a shadow of a doubt, my mindset was completely, impeccably normal.

"...I really wish it'd pop already."

Sighing in melancholy, I picked up my phone from the corner of the desk. My fingers navigated by muscle memory to an online gaming community—the forum for Path of Night.

The community's "Best" tab was plastered wall-to-wall with posts about me or outright targeting me. It made sense. The pro league was on off-season break, leaving the mob desperate for fresh meat to tear into, and in this game, not a soul was ignorant of my handle: 'Person Doing Their Best'.

With trembling fingers, I tapped into one post that particularly caught my eye.

Sharp, vicious barbs filled the screen. Hatred dripping with pure venom.

Basking in all that hostility directed straight at me... like any normal person, my heart pounded violently and my limbs began to tremble.

"Haaah."

Except... it wasn't out of fear.

Realizing that reading any further would be genuinely dangerous for my sanity, I hurriedly locked my phone.

In the darkened glass of the display, a faint reflection of my face looked back. A somewhat languid, listless impression, likely because of the half-lidded eyes and slightly parted lips. Cascading down around it was brilliant blonde hair, gleaming distinctly even against the black screen.

When I tilted my head, the girl in the reflection tilted hers. When I curled my lips, she smiled in kind.

"Huuuh."

Still so awkward. It was such a youthful face. Middle school? High school, at most? It didn't just meet beauty standards; it was stunning enough to slap a couple of top idols across the cheek.

I mean that purely objectively, of course. I didn't possess a single shred of narcissism.

"Heh."

And that, too, was its own gourmet treat. To think that the creature swooning in bliss over raw internet toxicity possessed a face like this. A sudden surge of exquisite depravity washed over me.

For a moment, shivers rippled through my body as I savored the lingering aftertaste. Then, squeezing my eyes shut, I snapped back to reality and pushed myself up from my chair.

Pleasure had surged into my heart like a rising tide, only to recede just as swiftly. All it left behind was a mudflat—slimy, sluggish, and so heavy it felt impossible to pull my feet free.

Managing to tear myself away from the desk, I surveyed my room.

Bleak didn't begin to describe it. Practically the only decent pieces of furniture were the computer and its peripherals. But by now, the sight failed to evoke much of anything in me.

"..."

I supposed I ought to eat something soon. I didn't feel particularly hungry, but I needed something to fill the hollow pit in my chest.

Nursing my empty mood, I wandered over toward the kitchen cupboards. Before my body had changed like this, a shelf at this height would have been effortless to reach. Now, I had to stretch and strain with my entire small frame just to yank the cabinet door open.

Click.

"Ah."

After all that struggle... no instant ramen. No cooked rice in the cooker. Not a single side dish in the fridge.

A sudden wave of irritation made me consider just starving, but the body was an honest thing.

Grumble.

I had played games nonstop since waking up without eating a single bite, so thinking I wasn't hungry had clearly been an illusion.

"Seriously..."

Drained of all strength by sheer disappointment, I sank down onto the edge of the bed, half by choice and half by gravity. With a soft rustle, the fluffy duvet embraced me.

I really didn't want to... but I'd have to make a run to the convenience store. On the off chance that I actually starved to death—unlikely as it was—who was going to delete my search history? Thanks to me, ancient sensationalist headlines like The Lethal Dangers of Gaming Addiction might come roaring back as a breaking news special.

"Can't let that happen."

Filled with grim resolve, I stood before the wardrobe, picked out something decent, and changed.

Standing by the front door, I took a few deep, centering breaths.

"Let's do this."

How long had it been since I last stepped outside? Out of dozens of misfortunes, there was at least one silver lining: the convenience store wasn't very far from my apartment.

Chime.

As the bell jingled clearly overhead and I stepped through the door, the part-timer's eyes locked onto me instantly.