Click. Clack. Clickclickclick.
The steady tapping of a keyboard filled the dimly lit office. Overhead, a fluorescent light buzzed weakly, casting a cold glow over the rows of empty cubicles. The only person still there sat hunched over a desk cluttered with crumpled sticky notes, tangled cables, and a graveyard of energy drink cans.
It was past midnight. Again.
This wasn't the dream.
Not even close.
Denji Tachibana, 25 years old, backend game developer, caffeine addict, and certified bug-fixer-for-hire. No family to go home to. No girlfriend waiting with a warm meal or a tired smile. Just lines of code and the ceaseless pressure of launch day And was on his fifth can tonight—and probably his fiftieth hour without sleep,
His eyes were red. His shoulders ached. But his fingers moved fast, blurring across the keyboard.
"Just a few more lines," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Patch the memory leak, clean up the loop, optimize the packet stream…"
His head jerked up when the screen flashed red: Error: Stack Overflow Detected.
"Goddamn it…" He yanked off his headset and rubbed his face, his skin clammy with sweat. "This launch is gonna kill me."
He leaned back, gaze falling to the dark window beside his cubicle. The city lights outside looked like a world he no longer belonged to—distant, silent, alive in ways he hadn't felt in years.
He glanced around the nearly empty office. Everyone else had left hours ago. He hadn't. He couldn't.
'You're the best on the backend team, Denji. We're counting on you.'
Funny how being "the best" only ever meant being the one left behind to clean up the mess.
He turned his head to a dusty photo frame by the monitor. Still filled with the default placeholder family. The kind of smiling, perfect photo you see in commercials for insurance or coffee. He never replaced it.
He didn't have anyone to replace it with.
"When I was a kid…" he whispered, "I wanted to make games that made people happy. Now I'm just fixing someone else's mistakes. Day after day. Bug after bug…"
He smiled bitterly.
"This wasn't the dream I wanted."
Suddenly...
A tight squeeze suddenly gripped his chest. He winced, reaching up with one hand, pressing against his ribs like he could crush the pain away.
Another stab of pain, sharper this time. His breath hitched.
"H-Huh...?"
His heart began to hammer wildly in his chest, thudding louder than his thoughts. His vision swam. Cold sweat beaded down his neck.
"Wait... what the hell—"
He tried to stand but stumbled forward, catching himself on the desk. His legs trembled, going numb. His other hand clawed at his chest, fingers trembling.
Pain exploded down his left arm.
His lungs seized.
He gasped—short, ragged, useless gulps of air that weren't reaching deep enough. The world tilted. His vision tunneled.
"N-no... Not like this...!"
He staggered, knocked over a can, and fell hard against the desk. His body collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, the monitor's glow flickering over his pale, sweat-slicked face.
His final thoughts were scattered and fragmented.
No one's here. No one will know... I still had so much to do...
Then—
Silence.
Darkness.
---
Warmth.
Soft and gentle, like floating in heated water. It seeped into him, filling every nerve with a surreal calm. There was no pain here. No buzzing lights. No keyboard. Just a strange comfort... and a growing awareness.
He was alive.
Or something like it.
Denji stirred.
A blurry white ceiling came into focus above him. The edges were rounded, smooth, and gleaming—like plastic or glass. The light it emitted was soft and even, not harsh like the flickering bulbs he'd grown used to.
His head tilted slowly, awkwardly. Movement felt... wrong. Unnatural. His neck was weak. His limbs refused to cooperate. He blinked and blinked again, trying to process what he was seeing.
Everything was huge.
Walls stretched far above. The mattress beneath him was too soft. His hands—small, chubby, uncoordinated—jerked in front of his face. Each motion was clumsy, like moving through syrup.
Wait!!
The realization hit like cold water.
No.
No way.
His breaths quickened, but even that came out as soft hiccuping gasps.
His mouth opened to speak—to ask what the hell was going on—but only a confused baby's gurgle came out.
He froze.
This wasn't the office
And this definitely wasn't his body.
He turned his head—slowly, shakily—to the side. A hiss of hydraulics drew his attention as a door panel slid open with a smooth shhhh.
A small, boxy robot rolled into view, its design almost cartoonish—clean white frame, rounded edges, and two glowing blue circles for eyes.
A nameplate read: BNL NURSE UNIT-9A
Its head tilted with almost human curiosity.
The machine chirped pleasantly, extending a sensor.
"Vital signs stable. Infant #A-M42 successfully awakened. Preparing nutrient schedule."
Another robot hovered into view, sleeker and taller with a tray of medical tools. Its voice chimed in, pleasant but artificial:
"Parent notification protocol initiated. Displaying welcome message."
A gentle chime played, followed by a glowing screen that projected above his face. An animated video started—cartoon figures standing beside a crib, faceless yet cheerful.
"Congratulations, [Passenger 1437] and [Passenger 1444]! Your child has completed artificial gestation. Please proceed to Nursery Deck 3 to begin bonding and initialization procedures."
Denji didn't understand all of it—but enough.
Artificial gestation? Nursery deck?
Where the hell was he?
A chill crept into his confused mind, despite the warmth of the pod. Something was very, very off.
The robots didn't act like any tech he'd seen before. They were too advanced. Too... clinical. The room around him was pristine. Smooth. Silent.
Was this… the future?
Was this a lab?
Had he been kidnapped? Cloned? Rebuilt?
A strange sinking sensation settled into him. The dread of knowing something had gone deeply wrong—but not knowing what.
He stared up at the ceiling;and muttered "where in the hell am I"