Shattered Sense of Reality
When I opened my eyes, the dank basement reeked of stale air, and I was alone.
Yang Ji-hye, Lee Ji-hee, Jeong Su-jeong. The three bitches who'd been barking like dogs under me last night, offering up their back holes, had already slipped back into their respective shells and headed off to their daylight lives.
In just one day yesterday, we'd raked in tens of billions of won. Jeong Su-jeong, who'd claimed first place, had 700 million in her account, and the other two weren't far behind with hefty sums of their own. And yet, none of them were quitting their jobs.
No, I had no intention of letting them quit. Ever.
I'd made that crystal clear from the start. If they ditched their jobs or abandoned their public personas just because the money was rolling in, this whole arrangement was over. Done.
Yang Ji-hye was getting married soon anyway, so her quitting wouldn't matter much. But Lee Ji-hee and Jeong Su-jeong? They were different. This fucked-up fishbowl ecosystem thrived on the uniqueness of their titles.
A demure bride-to-be with her wedding next year. A dancer and influencer with tens of thousands of followers, playing the pretty and innocent card. An elite nurse at a university hospital, saving lives.
Strip away those noble, respectable titles, and what were they? Just run-of-the-mill neighborhood whores. No distinct flavor, no thrill for the donors, no cash flow. They'd spend their lives wearing their daylight masks, basking in envy and admiration by day. That way, when they were dragged down here at night to become my cum dumps, the depravity hit maximum.
I got up, washed roughly, and waited for the movers.
I carefully packed only the high-end camera setups scattered everywhere, the broadcast-grade high-performance server, and the essential training gear I'd used to torment them every night. Everything else—the worn-out mattress, the trash furniture soaked in cum stench—got waste stickers slapped on and tossed out.
By afternoon, we finally arrived at the new 100-pyeong, two-story mansion smack in the middle of Yeonnam-dong.
No interior work yet, but the first floor was a vast, open space with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows flooding it with sunlight. The basement would get perfect soundproofing for the secret rooms. And the second floor? My private kingdom, ruling like a king without interference.
This insane building, bought outright with cash—no loans—and all in my name.
Once the movers gingerly unloaded the pricey gear and left, I stood dazed in the empty center of the first floor.
Alone in the wide, clean space bathed in warm sunlight, that inexplicable unease from last night in the basement crept up from my feet again.
Irritated, I pulled out my phone and checked the banking app.
The balance was unchanged. No—if anything, firing up the VVIP Streaming App showed VOD sales from yesterday's broadcast piling up in real-time, the numbers swelling like mad.
This wasn't a dream. The holographic window floating before my eyes, the massive cash in my account, this 100-pyeong standalone mansion in my name—they all proved it.
But reality still felt off. Not walking on clouds, just floating, adrift in space.
What the hell was this app? This power? Why had this bullshit cheat ability dropped on me out of nowhere?
And why had I accepted it so naturally, turning into a predator who trained and crushed women like beasts?
I wasn't originally this twisted, rotten to the core with malice.
I loved art.
I was just an ordinary guy obsessed with making real art—films with my name boldly in the director's chair. I'd slaved over scripts like a maniac. Even in the skull-splitting agony of all-nighters writing and storyboarding, that one hope kept me going: someday, my work on the big screen.
But filmmaking? A profession that doesn't make money from the jump.
Growing up, we weren't hurting for cash—a comfortable family. I was the handsome, tall guy everywhere I went, never felt a pinch of financial want. People flocked to me; I was popular, fun.
When the hell did my life turn into this shithole?
Was it in boot camp, rolling in the dirt, when I got the news my family went bankrupt?
Right after discharge, slaving on construction sites like a dog, serving at a bar at night, kissing up to asshole customers. Grinding my bones to pay tuition and stay in film school?
Finally dropping out without graduating because money choked me, scraping the bottom of the film industry, juggling food service gigs—two jobs, three, four—sleeping two hours a day, shaking with exhaustion?
I poured my entire twenties into it, and what? No entry into commercial films, just mounting debt.
Even that failed, so I grabbed a camera hearing commercial photography paid. But I couldn't shake the goddamn art disease—posing my "works" until I earned zilch, living like a beggar in that long, dark tunnel.
I don't know exactly when my insides started rotting. But life had knotted up hard.
The long-term girlfriend who'd stuck with me for years? One day: "I can't see a future with you anymore, oppa. I'm tired." Classic, cruel. Gone without looking back.
Everything after? Failures. Why? Fucked-up truth: I was a broke nobody with nothing. Love and devotion meant shit without cash. Romance and art? Toilet paper against money.
Those brutal years layered like tree rings inside me. Defeat and inferiority festered, twisting my personality into this vicious mess?
Is that why seeing those women sell their bodies filled me with such sadistic joy?
Plip.
Staring blankly into the vast, quiet space, a hot droplet traced my cheek. A tear.
"...Fuck."
What the hell? Why this sudden, crushing misery?
I was loaded now. An asset mogul with billions others never touch. One finger snap, and those three haughty bitches crawled at my feet like dogs, spreading wide.
But was I happy?
Didn't know.
The dopamine haze of mad capital and pleasure had numbed me, but now reality crashed in like a wave, chilling my spine.
My old wretched self versus now—alone in this empty mega-mansion with billions. So alien. Like a sledgehammer to the skull, my mind blanked white in shitty vertigo. To wash it away, I headed to the corner bar table where the movers had set stuff down. The ultra-expensive espresso machine I'd dropped ten million on ground beans with an irritating whine. I dumped ice into the thick shot and chugged.
Cold liquid slid down, but the sticky fog in my head wouldn't budge. I lit a cigarette.
Fwhoosh.
I puffed the acrid smoke deep, exhaling long into the air. Nicotine stabbed my veins, but the misery lingered. Worse—doubts sprouted like poison mushrooms in the dissipating haze.
Fuck... thinking about it, is this app even safe? That 6 billion in my account—real secure assets? What if the tax office or cops come sniffing about the source? The girls are dick- and money-drunk now, wagging tails like dogs, but what if they snap sober and rat me out for pimping, illegal filming, blackmail? Hell, I don't even know where this sponsor cash comes from. Am I unwitting money-laundering for some VVIP drug cartel or crime syndicate?
Thoughts spiraled; my fingers trembled faintly. Beyond that, this floating hologram? No smart glasses, no contacts—pure sci-fi fantasy, scientifically impossible. What if my body or brain's fucked, trapped in endless hallucinations? Poverty, despair, art obsession fusing into schizophrenia? The horrific idea clawed my brain.
This grand 100-pyeong mansion felt like a massive padded cell. Endless anxiety and paranoia surged like a tsunami, throttling me. Right on the edge of suffocating terror—
Beep.
Against my will, a sharp electronic tone pierced the air, forcing the hologram open. Not the usual sponsor settlement or live stream. A red-bordered stranger window filled my view, like a system glitch.
Han Siwoo. Thank you for using the VVIP Streaming service. The tutorial has ended.
The cigarette dropped from my mouth. I read the centered text again and again, brain frozen.
"Tutorial...?"
A dumb mutter escaped.
"What the fuck is this now?"
