"No! No! Fucking cuck!"
Nick yelled, hurling his controller to the floor like it owed him money.
It bounced once — twice — and then clattered pathetically under the bed, where it would remain as a casualty of emotional warfare.
His eyes were glued to the TV screen, where the pixelated black-haired protagonist was on his knees, arm outstretched in slow-motion despair as his supposed "true love" got mouth-hammered against a brick wall by some silver-haired giga-Chad.
Nick's face twisted. He looked like he'd eaten expired mayo.
Steam wasn't just a metaphor at this point — if this were an anime, the sheer rage radiating off him would've melted the plastic casing of his console.
"This... this is not an eroge," he hissed. "This is emotional damage with titty DLC!"
He grabbed the game case off the floor like it had insulted his mother.
The art looked so promising when he bought it — stacked girls in skimpy outfits, seductive glances, and a tagline that literally read: "Your heart's the real harem."
Lies.
Deceit.
Propaganda.
He dropped the case and with a crack, he yanked the disc out, probably wrecking the player in the process.
He held the shiny circle of betrayal in both hands… and snapped it clean in half.
The sound was divine.
"This isn't a dating sim — it's cuck simulator 3000!" he snarled, letting the broken shards fall like confetti onto his carpet of crushed dreams.
He collapsed onto his bed, sighing into the void.
His room was quiet again — too quiet.
No girls giggling. No cheesy background music. Just the low hum of a broke air conditioner and the gentle scent of microwave ramen.
Nick was in his early twenties, unemployed, and thoroughly convinced he was too ugly to date in real life.
Mirror selfies? Cursed.
Eye contact with women? A boss-level challenge he wasn't prepared for.
He'd once chickened out of asking a barista for extra whipped cream because she was "too pretty to be burdened by his existence."
So yeah — dating sims? They were his safe space. Predictable. Structured. Cute girls who didn't laugh when he talked about JRPGs.
But this one? This one had betrayed him.
"I could do a better goddamn job," he muttered, glaring at the broken disc like it owed him reparations.
And then he paused.
In the stories — manga, manhwas, light novels — this was the moment.
This was when the lightning hit the room, or a goddess popped up in a revealing robe, or a glowing screen whispered, "You have been chosen."
He waited.
Nothing happened.
"…Hello?" Nick said to no one.
Still nothing.
He sighed, turned off the lights, and slumped into bed like a disappointed child who didn't get isekai'd on Christmas.
The crusty warmth of his blanket cocoon wrapped around him like a burrito of failure.
"Fucking rigged transmigration system," he grumbled.
And with that, he knocked out.
...
Nick awoke to… softness.
His bed was not this soft. His pillow was not this fluffy.
And his ceiling was definitely not covered in gold-leaf patterns and a massive chandelier that looked one earthquake away from ending him.
He sat up slowly, vision blurry.
And caught a glimpse of a mirror.
He blinked. Then blinked again. Then squinted.
The man staring back at him had long, flowing black hair.
Noble clothes. Pretty-boy jawline. Eyes like he just lost his dog. Or his dignity.
"…No," Nick whispered. "No fucking way."
He scrambled to his feet, stumbling on thick, expensive rugs and polished wood floors.
There was no denying it. This was Reinhardt LeFay's room. The same one from the game. The same simp protagonist he just spent the night roasting into ashes.
He was inside the game.
He was inside the body of the cuck.
A knock came at the door and the door opened.
"Master Reinhardt?" a soft voice called. "Lady Elaina requests your presence in the garden."
Nick blinked.
Lady Elaina. The first love interest. The one who kissed his stepbrother by Chapter 2 like Reinhardt was furniture.
A rage twitch hit his eyelid.
"I'm not interested," Nick muttered flatly.
The maid blinked in confusion. "Young Master, Lady Elaina is waiting in the parlor — "
"Didn't you hear me? I'm not interested."
He didn't even look at her.
His voice wasn't angry or cold — just tired.
The kind of tired that came from emotionally dying inside after realizing your soul had been transported into the body of the biggest simp in dating sim history.
She hesitated again, like she wasn't sure whether he was joking.
He turned his head just enough to give her a side-eye that said, Please. I'm one mental breakdown away from throwing myself out the window.
She bowed and backed away with a polite nod before leaving the room.
Finally, silence.
Nick exhaled slowly and flopped back onto the obscenely soft bed, his fingers gripping the silk sheets.
He stared up at the ceiling, then turned his head toward the antique mirror hanging beside the massive, four-post bed.
His eyes locked onto the reflection — the same one that had made his jaw drop ten minutes ago.
"I'm really him," he whispered. "Reinhardt freakin' LeFay."
The same dude who had been on his knees crying like a kicked puppy in the game.
The same rich nobleman who got publicly humiliated, out-charisma'd, out-finessed, and out-man'd by literally every other male character.
Nick blinked, rubbed his eyes, and sat up.
The reflection did the same. He slowly walked over to the mirror, each step echoing on the polished marble floor like a sad violin note.
"This bitch is a goddamn pretty boy."
That wasn't even an insult.
It was a certified, government-stamped fact. The guy in the mirror had flawless skin.
Like, smooth-skin-Twitter-flawless. Pale and unblemished.
Silky black hair that flowed like it had its own personal wind animation. Eyes that looked like they were custom-designed in a K-pop idol factory.
And the body? Lean, slightly athletic, not a muscle bro but definitely in the I-can-pick-you-up-and-pin-you-against-the-wall tier of build.
Long legs. Broad shoulders. A jawline so sharp it could slice bread.
Nick touched his own face — well, Reinhardt's face — and winced.
'Damn, no wonder all the girls wanted to sit on this guy's face. Literally. But the problem?'
"The guy's still a clown," he muttered. "Doesn't matter how hot he is."