Just as Naria reached the door, her steps slowed. Her gaze flickered to the ground, where the GameDeck lay after I had chucked it like the piece of garbage it was.

"Oh…" she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "It's quite durable."

She crouched down, reaching for it, and just like that—

Her uniform tightened against her curves.

The fabric of her already snug nurse's outfit pulled taut, clinging to her ass in a way that left little to the imagination. The way it stretched, the faint outline of her underwear visible through the material…

I exhaled through my nose, watching.

"Hmm… not bad…" I mumbled, savoring the scene.

This was just one of Naria's little quirks.

She liked this.

The exhibitionism. The thrill of being seen. Of knowing someone was watching, but pretending she didn't notice.

A little kink of hers.

Not that I minded.

'Looks tasty…' I thought idly, lips twitching. 'Sad that she's only brave enough to exhibit herself to patients.'

Because that's what this was.

It wasn't confidence. It wasn't boldness. It was controlled rebellion.

She could tease, she could provoke—but only in safe zones. Only in places where no one would ever call her out for it.

And that was the difference between her and the women I despised.

She knew her place.

She liked playing with fire, but she never had the guts to let herself burn.

I sighed, leaning my head back.

Whatever.

It was a nice view, at least.

I shifted slightly in the bed, rolling my shoulders, and immediately, that familiar itch crept up my skin.

Shit.

Not this again.

A slow, crawling sensation spread through my arms, my legs, my back—like thousands of invisible needles pressing just beneath my skin. It wasn't painful.

Just fucking annoying.

I clenched my jaw, exhaling through my nose.

I knew exactly what this was.

One of the recent side effects of my treatment.

At first, I thought it was just in my head. Some random discomfort, some side effect of being stuck in this damn place for too long. But no—this was real.

A persistent, unrelenting itch beneath my skin, deep enough that scratching wouldn't even help.

Not that I could scratch even if I wanted to.

Because my body was trapped here.

Restricted. Bound to this fucking hospital bed like a prisoner in his own flesh.

I hated it.

That suffocating sensation of being unable to move, unable to fix something so goddamn simple. My fingers twitched at my sides, useless.

And that made it worse.

So much fucking worse.

I inhaled sharply, trying to suppress the frustration coiling in my gut. But it was there.

That inability to do anything.

That agitation scratching at the back of my mind.

And it kept building, layer upon layer, tightening like a vice around my nerves.

I exhaled through clenched teeth.

So. Fucking. Annoying.

I exhaled sharply, my teeth grinding together as the itching continued. Fucking hell.

I wanted to move. I wanted to scratch, shake, punch something—anything. But my body was still weak from the damn treatment, my limbs unresponsive, useless.

And that pissed me off even more.

"Fuck…" I muttered under my breath, the word slipping out before I could stop it.

My eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—to distract myself, to latch onto, to give this growing frustration somewhere to go.

And then—

My gaze landed on it.

The console.

The GameDeck still lying there, just a few feet away from where Naria had picked it up and set it back down.

"Heh…" A dry chuckle left my lips.

That fucking game.

That bloody fucking game.

The one that had just spit out a "Game Over" screen after tormenting me for hours. The one that had given me one of the worst endings I'd ever experienced. The one that had left a bitter taste in my mouth, the kind that wouldn't go away no matter how much I tried to forget about it.

It was perfect.

A perfect outlet.

I kept staring at the GameDeck, my fingers twitching as my mind ran laps around the sheer bullshit of that game.

Who the fuck came up with such a blatant, half-assed scenario?

Like, seriously.

Who sat down and thought, Yeah, let's make the main character the biggest fucking loser imaginable and watch him suffer for hours on end with no chance of redemption?

And for a game? A fucking game?

Games were supposed to be interactive. They were supposed to give you a chance to win. They weren't meant to be some predetermined tragedy simulator where no matter what you did, the outcome was still the same steaming pile of dogshit.

The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I got.

That guy, Damien Elford.

The biggest loser I'd ever seen in a game.

A walking disgrace. A fucking simp through and through.

Why would a character like that even exist?

Who the hell was supposed to relate to him? Who was supposed to feel bad for him? The moment Celia threw that knife of a line—"I never wanted you anyway—just like your parents"—he shut down.

No rage. No fight. No fucking spine.

Just kneeling there like a kicked dog, letting the world trample all over him.

It was infuriating.

I huffed, reaching out to grab my phone, my irritation bubbling over into something productive.

I went straight to Stream, the online store where the game was bought.

Not that I bought it.

That damn Eric did. Probably smirking to himself the entire time, knowing exactly what kind of mental torture he was throwing me into.

But since I had the account, I could leave a fucking review, right?

Damn right I could.

I pulled up the game's page, my fingers moving with practiced speed, the review box already open before I even had time to think twice about it.

Alright, you sadistic bastards.

Let's talk.

I opened the damn review box, ready to tear this game a new one.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, and then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I started typing.

Or at least, I tried to.

But the moment my hands started moving, I noticed it—the shaking.

"Tihs gaem is absilute gabrage—"

Fuck.

I gritted my teeth, my jaw clenching as my fingers twitched, making a mess of the words on the screen.

Another fucking side-effect.

Because of course, of course, my body wasn't satisfied with just being weak and useless. No, it had to add insult to injury by making my hands shake like a goddamn old man with nerve damage.

I backspaced, correcting my words, trying to steady my fingers.

Deep breath. Try again.

"This game is absolute garbage. Who the hell wrote this script? Whay would a main charcater be such a spinelss fucking idi—"

Goddamn it.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

I could already feel my frustration mounting, my breathing getting heavier as I struggled to just write a goddamn sentence.

But I wasn't stopping.

No.

I was finishing this review, even if I had to fight my own body to do it.