V

When I opened my eyes, I had no idea where I was.

The first thing I saw was Jasmine—licking, sucking, and choking on my length as I lay naked on a mattress, my back soft against its surface. The wet, sloppy sounds echoed around me, every sense sharp and vivid.

Was this my fantasy manifesting before I died? Or could this possibly be the true afterlife?

I wasn’t sure what to think, so I just went with it. Jasmine, with her long, dark brown hair and impressionable personality, had always been a crush of mine. She was fun to be around, easy to talk to, and strikingly confident in ways that made her stand out. Her face didn’t matter much here—not in a world where appearance could be customized to suit one’s whims.

Before I realized it, I was swept up in her rhythm. She was relentless, her movements pulling me deeper into her flow. My body responded as if it had a will of its own, instinct taking over where thought faltered.

I felt like a farmer tending to his fields, each thrust like planting seeds into fertile valleys. The work was demanding yet exhilarating, the peaks of pleasure growing sharper with every moment.

"So this is sex," I thought, barely able to keep up.

The rumors had always painted a vivid picture: the rich supposedly made their heirs this way, supplementing the act with expensive methods like Data Inheritance. The thought seemed absurdly distant now, lost in the heat of the moment.

This wasn’t baby-making. This was banal and pleasurable sex.

When I thought Jasmine was done, she surprised me. Her lips brushed my neck before she pushed me back onto the mattress, her confidence unshakable. Without missing a beat, she climbed on top of me, taking control with the poise of a seasoned cowgirl.

I was, frankly, speechless.

This had to be a dream, I told myself. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, the reality of this situation could mean something far worse than I dared to imagine.

We continued into the night, non-stop, until exhaustion claimed us both. As she collapsed against me, her breath heavy and warm, I stared at the ceiling and wondered: if this wasn’t death, then what was waiting for me on the other side of this moment?

Jasmine was deep asleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I could still feel her warmth, but I was brimming with an unsettling energy. Carefully, I untangled myself from her embrace, moving as quietly as I could. The sheets were a mess—tangled and damp with sweat and… well, everything else.

I sighed, a wave of paranoia sweeping over me. I grabbed fresh sheets from the closet and swapped them out, fumbling slightly as I tried to be quiet. I had no idea how to treat a girl properly. Was changing the sheets after sex normal? Was leaving them the way they were rude? I didn’t know, but I didn’t want to risk doing the wrong thing.

With the bed taken care of, I grabbed some clothes and headed for the restroom. The cool air hit my face as I stepped inside, and I felt the need to splash water on myself, to clear my mind.

But then I froze.

Hovering above my head in the mirror’s reflection was a glowing label:

[Level 10]

"What the hell?" I muttered. My body stiffened, my hands gripping the edges of the sink. The shock of seeing my level displayed like that was enough to make me question my sanity. L-level 10? That was like… ten times higher than I remembered.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The reflection in the mirror wasn’t mine.

It was Charlie’s.

"Charlie?" I whispered, leaning closer to the mirror as if the reflection might somehow explain itself.

Suddenly, a bright, translucent interface appeared in front of my eyes, floating in the air like something out of a game.

Player: Owen Heart

Level: 10

Health: 100%

Power: 100%

STATS (Points: 5):

Willpower: 6

Freedom: 6

Fortitude: 6

Empathy: 2

SKILLS (Points: 5):

Fake-Out (Level 3)

Appraisal (Level 2)

I stared, wide-eyed, at the glowing display, my mind racing.

"This can’t be real," I muttered, shaking my head as if that would make it disappear. But it didn’t. The words and numbers remained, etched into the air as if mocking me.

I touched my face, my fingers trembling as they ran over skin that didn’t feel like mine. This wasn’t me. It was his face, his body.

The realization hit me like a truck.

"I’m Charlie," I whispered, the words tasting foreign and wrong in my mouth.

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A hollow, sinking feeling settled in my stomach as I stared at the interface.

"I sure damn wish there was someone who could explain this to me," I muttered. "But what in the living hell is this?"

There were no answers in the reflection, only questions that multiplied with every second.

I knew the skill Appraisal but not Fake-Out. However, at a data level, it felt intuitive—like an instinct embedded deep within me. I could sense how to use it and its effects. It was versatile, more so than I initially thought. The skill could hide my real level, disguise it to appear higher or lower, and even make my deception harder to detect. It was brilliant in its subtlety, a skill built for subterfuge.

So without a thought, I used Fake-Out to disguise myself as a Level 4 like the original Charlie.

There were still a lot to explore.

But I didn’t have the luxury of time to fully process this newfound knowledge.

Jasmine’s arms wrapped around me from behind, her soft embrace pulling me out of my thoughts. She whispered something playful, helped me out of my clothes, and pulled me back to bed.

This time, she leaned back, spreading her legs in an inviting display of confidence. I couldn’t resist, even if I wanted to. My body responded on its own, as if compelled by some foreign instinct. I was caught in a haze of sensations, unsure if I was truly alive, dead, or somewhere in between.

Before I knew it, days had turned into weeks. A fortnight of alternating between bouts of passion, half-hearted dates, and countless attempts to make sense of this new reality passed in a blur.

It felt as though I had been absorbed into Charlie’s life, the momentum of his routine swallowing me whole.

I sat at his desk one morning, staring blankly at the printed simulation from the holo-simulator. It resembled an advanced version of a smartphone—sleek, intuitive, impossibly advanced. And yet, it felt hollow.

I had definitely become Charlie.

The memories were fragmented, but clear enough to know that Kristof, the CEO of Works Amway, had killed me. My body, my identity—gone, disintegrated into nothingness. And here I was, stuck in someone else’s skin.

To say I felt complicated would be the understatement of a lifetime.

“Hey, sweetie, wanna try cosplay sex later?” Jasmine leaned over from her cubicle, her voice barely above a whisper but laced with playful mischief.

The way she said it so casually caught me off guard. It felt... endearing. Her lightheartedness clashed with the heaviness in my chest, but I managed to respond without giving myself away.

“Oh my, I never thought my girlfriend would be into such a thing,” I said, trying to mirror Charlie’s charm.

She giggled, her cheeks flushing just slightly before she returned to her screen. It should have been a moment of levity, but instead, it only deepened my unease.

I felt sick.

Sick, yet depravedly glad that no one seemed to notice I was a fraud. No one was pointing fingers, calling me out for not being Charlie. Maybe I could pull this off. Maybe I could live Charlie’s life, fake my way through his routines and relationships.

But the thought churned my stomach. The truth was simple and brutal: Jasmine didn’t want me. She wanted Charlie. His status, his wealth, his rank—it was all part of the package she clung to so desperately… now of all times that Charlie had shown interest on her.

And could I blame her? In this world, rank was everything. She was a Level 2, clinging to a Level 5 like her survival depended on it. Perhaps it did.

I sighed, burying my resentment beneath a layer of self-loathing.

“Charlie?” Jasmine’s voice cut through my thoughts, her tone uncertain. “Is their a problem?”

Her question hung in the air, and for a moment, I saw through her facade. She was trying so hard to please me, to keep me close. She must have feared that, like so many others in this cutthroat world, I’d cast her aside for someone better, someone with higher level and a better background.

She wasn’t wrong to worry.

“No,” I said at last, forcing a smile that I hoped looked genuine. “There’s no problem.”

Her face lit up, and she leaned back in her chair, satisfied with my answer.

But inside, I felt hollow. Resentment and guilt twisted together in a bitter knot. I resented Jasmine for loving Charlie, for clinging to him so shallowly. But I hated myself even more—for taking his place, for resenting her, for being the parasite I had always been.

Charlie had looked down on me, I was sure of it. He’d used me, manipulated me, and likely had a hand in my death. But what good was resenting a dead man? It was as futile as everything else in this borrowed life.

I sighed again, leaning back in my chair.

Jasmine was talking about something else now, but I barely heard her. I could only hope I’d find a way to make sense of this mess before it consumed me.

This life… it was intoxicating.

The respect. The power. The love.

It was all too much, too addicting to resist. Every day, I found myself sinking deeper into the role of Charlie, wearing his skin and his life as if they were my own. The way people looked at me, deferred to me—it was the kind of reverence I’d never known as Owen.

And Jasmine... Jasmine was a world unto herself.

As the days passed, she grew bolder, more desperate to ensnare my heart entirely. Her love was all-consuming, almost worshipful, and it filled a void I hadn’t realized I carried. But it wasn’t without its cost.

She would get jealous easily, clinging to me whenever another woman so much as looked my way. Her questions, veiled in innocence, felt like probes for cracks in my desires. She wanted to know what made me tick, what hidden need she could fulfill to make me stay.

“Charlie,” she’d whisper in the dark, her fingers tracing my chest, “is there something you’ve always wanted to try? Something you’ve been too shy to say?”

Her devotion was suffocating. She offered herself to me like a gift, always eager, always pliant. One night, she hesitated before saying, “Would you… like it if I were tied up? In bondage?”

Her eyes searched mine, vulnerable yet determined.

I didn’t know how to respond.

Another time, she suggested rougher play, offering herself as a willing participant to my whims. “You can try choking me,” she said one evening, her voice shaking but resolute. “Or… slapping me, if that’s what you’re into.”

I suspected she might have been a masochist, but my [Appraisal] skill told me otherwise. I was… observant if nothing else.

Jasmine didn’t like pain, not really. I could see it in the way she flinched at even the suggestion of biting or anything that left a mark. She didn’t enjoy being hurt—she only offered these things out of fear.

Fear of losing me.

And it sickened me.

Why? I didn’t know. She loved me. She worshipped me. I should have been happy, grateful even. And I was. But beneath the surface, something twisted.

I loved her too—at least, I thought I did.

Yet every time she felt like she wasn’t enough, she would spiral into despair. One night, after I’d reassured her for the hundredth time, she sat on the edge of the bed, her voice trembling.

“I just… I don’t want you to leave me, Charlie. If I’m not enough, tell me what to do. I’ll change. I’ll be better. Anything.”

Her words cut me deeper than I wanted to admit. She wasn’t lacking. She didn’t need to change. But she couldn’t see that, no matter how much I told her. And the more she doubted herself, the more it felt like she was unraveling.

I found her once, staring blankly at a knife in the kitchen. She wasn’t holding it threateningly—just tracing the blade with her finger, lost in thought.

“Jasmine,” I said sharply, breaking her trance.

She flinched, dropping the knife. “I—I wasn’t going to do anything,” she stammered. “I was just thinking.”

But I knew better.

Her love for me was consuming her. And maybe, just maybe, it was consuming me too.