"Chat… I think my life just soft-reset."
The webcam flickered on.
Dim lighting. A cramped room. A young man with good bone structure and a face that looked like it had been emotionally and financially mugged stared into the lens.
For three seconds, the chat was silent.
Then it exploded.
"WHAT the hell happened to you??"
"Bro looks like he got defeated by a boss with a hidden second phase."
"Judging by the hollow eyes and weak voice—yep, classic late-night overexertion."
"Already?? First IRL et and you went straight to the endga?!"
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Stop. Stop right there. Brothers… I have been robbed. In every sense of the word."
That only made it worse.
"HOLY—CLIP THIS."
"Wake the dorm! Wake the campus! Soone alert the alumni group!"
"It's 8 a.m. you animals!"
Peter was a Pokémon ga strear. Three years online, zero scandals. Last night, he'd ended stream early to et his online girlfriend—three years of daily ssages, late-night calls, shared dreams.
First ti eting.
Also, apparently, last ti.
"She took my money," Peter continued hollowly, "and… possibly my dignity."
Chat went feral.
"Possibly??"
"Strear, dignity is optional. Money is not."
"I'm downloading the Anti-Fraud App for you."
"Please explain the scam in detail. For academic research."
Peter hesitated.
Then sighed.
Drinks. Too many of them. A blur. Darkness.
Waking up half-naked, sore in places he didn't want to think about.
And on the bed—
Faint reddish stains, shaped like scattered petals.
One ssage on his phone.
Let's never et again.
Blocked. Everywhere.
Money gone. Girl gone.
Peter stared at the screen, soul quietly exiting his body.
"…I should probably get checked, right?"
That suggestion alone sent chat into chaos.
An hour later, Peter was at a small clinic, staring nervously at a doctor who looked like he'd already given up on humanity.
"I want a full check," Peter said. "Especially… fertility."
The doctor didn't even blink. "Scan first. Second floor."
"Uh… price?"
"Two-fifty."
Peter winced but paid.
When he returned with the report, hands shaking, the doctor finally looked up.
"…You're a virgin."
Peter's brain blue-screened.
"…What?"
"No prior sexual activity," the doctor said calmly. "Everything's intact."
Silence.
Then realization.
Those stains.
The sll.
"…Tomato sauce?"
Peter nearly cried in relief.
"So I'm fine?"
The doctor humd, studying the scan longer this ti.
"…Not entirely."
Peter's heart sank. "How bad?"
"Rare condition," the doctor said solemnly.
Peter forced a smile. "How rare… and how expensive?"
The doctor tapped the image. "This here. Abnormally enlarged."
"…What is it?"
"Your conscience."
Peter: "?"
"dically speaking—severe moral overdevelopnt."
Peter stared.
"If untreated," the doctor continued, "symptoms include excessive kindness, chronic gullibility, repeated financial losses, and being emotionally destroyed by obvious scams."
Each word hit like a sniper round.
"…Can it be removed?"
"Highly recomnded."
"And after removal?"
"Well," the doctor said thoughtfully, "you might start winning in life."
Before Peter could respond, the door opened.
Then another.
And another.
Doctors filled the room.
Peter's instincts scread.
"Wait—what's the success rate?"
"Excellent!" one doctor said cheerfully. "We've all had ours removed."
Peter froze.
"…All of you?"
The scalpel glead.
Cold.
Too cold.
That's when Peter noticed where it was positioned.
Lower back.
Kidney level.
"Oh."
OH.
This wasn't conscience surgery.
This was harvesting.
Peter moved.
Fast.
A kick. A shove. A leap—
Straight out the open window.
Mid-air, he even had the presence of mind to wave.
"Thanks for the consultation!"
The head surgeon leaned out.
"…Sir. This is the eighteenth floor."
Peter looked down.
Wind roared.
"…WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT NOW—"
Impact.
Darkness.
"Hey! Wake up!"
A voice—bright, sharp, alive—cut through the void.
Peter groaned.
"You people and your conscience obsession—your whole family's morally overdeveloped…"
"…Peter?"
He opened his eyes.
Pink hair.
Pink eyes.
A girl standing with hands on her hips, clearly annoyed.
"What nonsense are you yelling first thing in the morning?"
Beside her—
A massive pink-and-black cow Pokémon raised a hoof.
"Milk."
WHAM.
Pain.
Real pain.
"OW—WHAT THE—?!"
"Hmph. Serves you right," the girl snapped. "Get up! If you're late again, the Miltank are going to riot."
Peter froze.
This wasn't a hospital.
This wasn't Earth.
Six years ago—on the day he jumped—
He had already crossed worlds.
Into the place he'd only ever known through a screen.
The Pokémon world.
And standing in front of him—
Whitney.
Goldenrod City Gym Leader.
Peter stared at the Miltank.
Then at Whitney.
Then at his own hands.
"…Chat," he whispered to the void, "I think I respawned in hard mode."
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