Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: A Chilling Awakening
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I woke up tossing and turning from that creepy, prickling sensation.
A faint chill clung to my arms and legs. Should've closed the window before bed.
"Agh."
I'd cracked my eyes open from the cold, only to squeeze them shut again right away.
A shitty headache was plastered to my skull, just like the shivers slapping against my thigh.
What the hell. Did I catch the flu in just one day or something?
No matter how tightly I clenched my eyes, the headache wouldn't fade. If anything, it was getting worse.
The throbbing pain ramped up to pounding throbs, then sharpened into something like an awl drilling straight into my brain.
I writhed around on the bed a few times before freezing. The feel of the mattress against my back was off.
Way too... comfortable.
I realized it in an instant. This wasn't the lumpy junk at my place—the worn-out springs that always creatively tortured my back.
"Fuck?"
Sensing something wrong, I forced myself upright and pried my eyes open.
My eyelids felt glued shut, but when I finally forced them apart, this wasn't my room staring back at me.
"What the actual fuck?"
And that voice... it wasn't mine either.
It had been a totally ordinary day.
Well past midnight, technically Saturday already, I fired up the shitty game like always and jumped into the Colosseum. With ranked MMR only matching me one player at a time, it was better to just open private rooms from the start.
I knocked out a quick best-of-10 first. Double monitors—one running the game, the other for gallery browsing. Routine I'd been doing for years, like breathing.
'Of course the diehards are all familiar faces—figures for a dead game with no new content in 11 years.'
They were the ghosts still haunting it, after all.
We'd declared it the final run, gotten screwed by matchmaking, screamed about it being the real last game, then flipped to nonstop best-of-10s until it was pushing 2 a.m.
Weekend vibes, no one around to nag about sleeping in anyway.
I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come. Tossed and turned forever before grabbing my phone again.
Just a little web surfing—next thing I knew, I'd binged webnovels past 3 a.m. and barely drifted off. That was probably the mistake.
"Fuck."
When I came to, I was flailing on the floor of some unfamiliar room.
"Fuck fuck fuck."
My head pounded like the morning after blacking out drunk.
Lips cracked dry from all the cursing, throat parched raw.
Gonna puke.
The world spun in circles. How many bottles did I knock back, you dumbass Lee Jin-cheol—what the—
But right then, a weird doubt bubbled up.
It got shoved aside quick, though.
Just like noticing the mattress felt off, this wasn't my one-room dump.
"..."
Too spacious to call a one-room, honestly.
Peering around through squinted eyes, it looked easily over 500 square feet at a glance.
Bookshelves, wardrobes, and clutter made it feel snug, but it might've been closer to 650. More like a studio apartment than a true one-room.
Anyway, point was, not mine.
"Ugh..."
My brain went on strike, too busy with dumb thoughts.
It stabbed with an intensity I'd never felt before, and my stomach churned right along with it.
No, this headache was inhumanly bad.
Throbbing skull plus gut-wrenching nausea synergized into total disorientation. I needed to sort my thoughts, but they wouldn't settle.
Dizzy. Queasy. And now my whole body shivered too.
For a guy to whine about a hangover like this... it wasn't normal nausea.
What the hell did I drink? No other explanation for this pain.
Worst hangover of my life, hands down.
This wasn't any ordinary hangover. What the fuck did I even ingest?
"...Huh?"
But here's the problem.
No matter how hard I racked my brain, I couldn't remember drinking anything.
I figured the blackout was from whatever led me here—maybe passed out on the street, caught a bug. Some kind soul picked me up before I froze to death.
It fit perfectly the more I thought about it.
For a split second, it made total sense—until I remembered crashing in my own bed, surfing the web till I passed out.
Even with my scrambled brains, I recalled it crystal clear.
What the fuck. I didn't drink.
Hell, I didn't even buy any booze.
Just got home from work on the subway, that's it.
Odinson's a tough physical game at its core. Colosseum ranked matches turn into hardcore fighters the higher you climb.
Reach contests, build wars, timing duels, hitbox math, poise decay calcs... not something you play drunk.
Sure, occasional drunk internet lobbies happen, but not last night.
High-level games, intense best-of-10s.
Midway, we busted out my secret elven sword-spear build and Potbelly Uncle's troll dwarf dagger-throw giant setup—party got lit.
Gallery lurkers stuck around late for play-by-plays too.
The deeper I dug, the more lost I got. Focusing harder just brought bigger pain waves.
Goddamn it.
Is this that joyless responsibility bullshit?
Shaking off the nonsense naturally led to: So how the hell did I end up here?
Where even is here? And how?
A dream?
No way.
You can't think straight in dreams, and if it's real, sensations give it away.
Am I crazy then?
Mental breakdown from burnout? Sounded plausible, and I couldn't outright deny it—depressing.
No memory means either alcohol amnesia or... bludgeoned and kidnapped?
Hence the headache?
But who kidnaps a lowlife civil servant whose life achievement is 12,000 hours in a dead game?
Nah, maybe not.
Could be revenge from Potbelly Uncle after I spanked him endlessly yesterday.
Though he drilled holes in my gut too, so self-defense.
Forced a chuckle through the silly thoughts, but even a tiny laugh shook my skull and stabbed my brain.
"Agh... fuck..."
I slapped my forehead with trembling hands amid the curses—and chills exploded over my skin.
A few things clicked at once, starting with no glasses.
Yet my wide-open vision was crisp and clear.
Second, that cursing voice sounded unfamiliar.
Third, my hair felt annoyingly long.
I whipped my gaze around the room like a fugitive.
Everything I needed was there, but it lacked lived-in warmth.
Spartan setup—just the essentials. One quirky touch: a shelf stacked with liquor bottles.
Otherwise, desk and table spotless.
No beer mugs, cola cans, or bottle caps from last night like in my pigsty.
No dust on the monitor or shelves either.
Definitely cleaned recently. Wet wipe box on the desk confirmed it.
And next to that slimmed-down box—mid-deep clean binge, judging by the "gentle promise," "baby skin" nonsense printed on it—a white container caught my eye.
"...".
The rest of the desk space was crammed with books.
As a book lover myself, I felt a budding kinship with the owner... until I couldn't ignore the white tub anymore and forced my eyes away.
There it was again.
"Jesus..."
One glance screamed pharmacy.
Not flashy supplement vitamins with fruit pics. Stark, info-only packaging—real prescription meds.
The kind you need a doctor's note for.
"What the... fuck is this really..."
I read the label amid my nth string of curses since entering this room: "Insomnia Treatment."
Gave me the creeps.
A seriously, seriously bad thought surfaced.
And below it, scattered blue pills across the desk and floor. Alphabets stamped on them—gibberish to me.
The sort no normal person needs to know in a lifetime.
"What..."
Cold logic needs context. Without it, no deductions possible.
My fried brain tapped out quick.
I got nothing.
Help.
Make it stop.
I'm scared.
We're all gonna die.
"And what the fuck are you?"
No answer, of course.
Felt so unfair, curses boiled up.
"Who the hell are you, you bitch..."
I wasn't usually this potty-mouthed.
But humanly, my head hurt way too much.
No, even ignoring that—
"Where's my fucking voice..."
This was the part that made zero sense.
The voice in my ears—even cursing—was goddamn pretty, feminine.
Where'd my booze-and-smoke-ravaged growl go?
"This. Fucking."
Dropped my head with the swear, and side-swept hair tumbled into view on both sides.
Not super long—forearm length maybe?
Glossy black like polished ebony, silky smooth.
Swishing lightly past my shoulders, but the sensation of long hair was alien enough for a first-timer.
My overload-fried brain struggled to process.
Bowing my head brought another first.
Breasts.
Yeah, breasts.
Just dipping my chin hid the floor with perky mounds.
Even through the loose shirt, the outline screamed "generous."
Way more direct than the hair—proof I was trapped in a stranger's body.
My hand moved on autopilot, unconsciously.
Palm met flesh, and predictably, another utterly alien sensation hit.
First time touching anything this size, but being on the receiving end? Indescribable.
The bounce and softness under my palm stunned me, but the squished chest pressure was creepily foreign.
-Knead knead
Breasts tugged, stung a little.