The fluorescent lights of Yamada Corporation's accounting department buzzed with the same monotonous hum that had filled Haruto's ears for the past six years. He stared at the spreadsheet on his monitor, numbers blurring together into meaningless rows of data. Twenty-eight years old, and this was his life—endless columns of figures that represented other people's dreams and ambitions.
*Click. Type. Enter. Repeat.*
The wall clock's hands crawled toward 9 PM. Again. Around him, his coworkers had long since escaped to their own lives, leaving behind empty coffee cups and the lingering scent of desperation masked by cheap cologne.
"Tanaka-san," his supervisor's voice cut through the silence. "The Sasaki account needs to be finished tonight."
Haruto's fingers paused over the keyboard. He looked up at the balding man whose greatest achievement was making other people's lives marginally more miserable. "Yes, Yamamoto-san."
*When did I become so pathetic?*
The thought struck him like a physical blow. Once, he'd dreamed of writing novels, of creating worlds that mattered. Now he couldn't even remember the last time he'd opened a book that wasn't a manual for accounting software.
Three hours later, Haruto finally stepped into the cool Tokyo night. The city lights painted the sky in shades of neon pink and electric blue, but even their beauty felt hollow. Salary-men shuffled past like ghosts, their faces lit by smartphone screens, each trapped in their own invisible prison.
He pulled out his phone to check the time—12:47 AM. The same convenience store sandwich would be waiting in his empty apartment, along with the same mindless TV shows and the same crushing weight of another wasted day.
*Is this really all there is?*
The narrow street stretched before him, lined with vending machines that glowed like digital shrines. A police siren wailed in the distance, mixing with the rumble of late-night traffic. Haruto's reflection stared back at him from a shop window—thin, tired, forgettable.
That's when he heard it.
A tiny, desperate mewing that cut through the urban symphony like a blade.
Haruto stopped, his head turning toward the sound. There, in the middle of the street, a small orange kitten sat frozen in the glare of approaching headlights. The truck—massive, industrial, unstoppable—bore down on the helpless creature like fate itself.
Time froze.
The driver, probably exhausted from his own endless shift, hadn't seen the kitten. The animal's green eyes reflected the headlights, wide with terror. In that moment, Haruto saw something he'd forgotten existed—pure, innocent life hanging in the balance.
*At least I can save something.*
His body moved before his mind could object. Dress shoes slapped against wet asphalt as he sprinted into the street. The world became a tunnel of light and sound—the truck's horn blaring, brakes screaming against metal, the kitten's panicked cry.
Haruto's hands closed around the small, warm body just as the truck's bumper kissed his ribs.
*Crack.*
The sound of his own bones breaking was surprisingly soft, almost musical. He had a split second to register the kitten's safety in his arms before the impact sent him spinning through the air like a discarded puppet.
The asphalt rushed up to meet him. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and warmth spread across his chest—not the good kind of warmth, but the wet, metallic kind that meant his story was ending.
*At least… at least I did something that mattered.*
His vision blurred. The neon lights above became distant stars, and the city sounds faded to whispers. The kitten in his arms mewed softly, unharmed.
*Thank God.*
Darkness swallowed him whole.
*********
**THUD.**
Haruto's eyes snapped open, his lungs filling with air that tasted of incense and roses instead of exhaust fumes. The fluorescent office lights were gone, replaced by a warm, crimson glow that pulsed like a heartbeat.
He sat up, expecting pain from his broken ribs, but found only smooth, unblemished skin beneath his torn shirt. The asphalt was gone too, replaced by polished marble that reflected the light like liquid fire.
"Well, well. You're awake."
The voice was silk and honey, with just a hint of playful mischief. Haruto's head snapped toward the sound, and his breath caught in his throat.
A woman sat on a huge throne that appeared like it was made of crystals.But "woman" didn't seem right; she was something more, something that made the air itself seem to glitter with possibilities.Her hair fell down her shoulders like silver water, and her eyes were as deep as time itself. Silken veils draped her curves in a way that was both modest and utterly enticing, as if she existed in a realm where such distinctions were meaningless.
"I… where am I?" Haruto's voice cracked like a teenager's.
"My divine realm," she said, rising from her throne with fluid grace. Each step toward him seemed to make the very air more electric. "I am Lyssara, Goddess of Desire and Passion. And you, dear Haruto, are my chosen champion."