11:55 P.M.
"YESSS!"
In a cramped, dimly lit room that reeked like a series of tragic life choices, rotten dreams, and microwaved dried squid, a lone man erupted with joy.
His cheer pierced the suffocating silence of midnight like a war cry of a victorious soldier. The source of his ecstasy? The climax of an anime episode playing at retina-searing brightness on his aging monitor.
That man was Clark Anima, a fully certified NEET: Not in Education, Employment, or Training, for the past nine consecutive years.
A title he bore with pride... or at least with the same apathetic neutrality he applied to most things in his life.
Clark hadn't moved from his computer chair in what could generously be described as "several hours," but in truth, a forensic examination might conclude it had been closer to "since Tuesday."
His battle station, once a humble IKEA desk, had long since mutated into a chaotic ecosystem of its own.
Open ramen cups (some still with now-moldy broth!), countless chip bags, half-empty soda cans piled pushed to one side, and sticky patches best left uninvestigated. A layer of sweat clung to his plastic chair like a sad second skin, and even that was the least offensive substance present. All of it were witnesses to his over 72 hours anime marathon.
[Transform, Sparkle Princess of Hope! Let your love beam pierce through the heart's darkness!]
The shrill, hopeful voice of the titular heroine echoed through tinny desktop speakers. The show, Magical Girl Phonemia: Uncensored Blu-Ray Version, Season 8, Episode 22, blasted at full volume, as though Clark either didn't have neighbors or didn't consider their sleep schedules relevant.
"FUCK!!! PRAISE THE ANIMATORS! PRAISE THE JIGGLE PHYSICS!!!"
He shouted with the cracked enthusiasm of a man who hadn't drunk water in sixteen hours.
His throat sounded like it underwent one pass through a voice scrambler. His lips dry enough to exfoliate drywall.
In one shaky hand he clutched a bag of chips, no longer crispy and probably hazardous by now, and in the other, his... mouse. Ahem. The standard kind.
Without wasting a moment, he clicked with the dexterity of a goblin monk who had trained under lewd masters.
Pause.
Screenshot.
Zoom.
Enhance.
After his short but painstaking work, there it was.
A clip of the legendary panty shot!
A rare angle that the animation team had gone full 240 frames-per-second in that three-second scene!
"God-tier… S-tier… Artifact class…" he whispered, reverently dragging the GIF into a folder so bloated with images, GIFs, and videos that it lagged File Explorer.
The folder itself was nested together with six other directories of various subjects... which could roughly be shortened into "homework" folder.
He exhaled, a long, wheezy breath of satisfaction that whistled through the crust forming at the edge of his nose.
"Only... three episodes left..." he mumbled, eyes bloodshot from continuous exposure to screen glare and deeply questionable brightness settings. "Then I'll finally be free... Until Season 9 drops."
He leaned back slowly. Instead of his chair, a fake-gaming throne with a cracked plastic base and a lumbar pillow that now resembled a lumpy corpse, it was his body that creaked like a haunted door.
Behind him, upside down from his reclined view, a digital wall clock displayed the time with cold finality. Just below it hung a dusty family photo: a relic from a life that once included things like sunlight and basic hygiene.
"One more minute… and I'll be thirty…" he whispered, voice trembling like it held sacred weight.
A dry chuckle escaped his cracked lips. The corners of his mouth twitched, trying to remember how smiles worked. Somewhere in his heart, or perhaps the shriveled prune of it that remained, he still clung to that ancient meme.
The Wizard Threshold.
Thirty years of virginity grants you magical powers. Or so the internet whispered, between cursed threads and ironic shitposts.
He knew it was dumb. He wasn't delusional. But when you've spent almost a decade immersed in isekai, idol gacha games, and waifu merch with more screen time than your parents gave you your whole life... a little magical thinking helped.
His heart pounded in anticipation. No longer just from the three-day anime binge, but from something else... hope? dread? sodium overdose?
His tongue, now a dry and cracked terrain that tasted like instant ramen seasoning packets and despair, flicked over his lips. It didn't help though, as his saliva had long dried up too. His entire mouth was sticky with sugar residue, parched.
To his left, a mighty pyramid of empty soda cans stood like a shrine to questionable choices. Citrus Demon™, Ultra Cola MAXX™, Fizzpocalypse™, all off-brand, all caffeinated to hell and back.
At the foot of this carbonated ziggurat rested a near-depleted box of taquitos, lying next to an actual, unopened bottle of water... which he had forgotten even existed.
BEEP.
The digital clock sounded, signaling midnight's coming with an emotionless tone.
At the same time, a pop-up appeared at the corner of his desktop. A skimpily clothed V-Tuber model carrying a placard with words:
🎉 "Happy Birthday, Clark-kun! Let's make this year unforgettable, okay? ❤️"
-LoveAI GF v3.2
Then...
THUMP!
Clark's heart suddenly jackhammered inside his chest like someone just booted up DOOM on his ribcage.
"H-huh…?" he blinked, mouth dry, head foggy.
He thought it was just his excitement for his birthday and caffeine, mixing together, but the pain spread rapidly. His chest tightened, constricting with the ferocity of a hentai tentacle wrapped around a heroine's waistline. Within seconds, he lost the ability to breathe.
"T-too much caffeine. S-should've... drunk water…" he gasped in thought.
A beautiful lie.
His trembling hand knocked over the opened pack of chips. Its contents scattered onto the floor, one landing atop his beloved anime mousepad, Phonemia's 3D Silicone Oppai Mousepad.
He reached out.
Not to his phone to ask for help.
Not to the far-off fire alarm to garner attention.
But to hit the spacebar, to keep the episode playing.
"Phonemia-chan... still hasn't... reached the beach arc…"
Despite his persistence, he quickly collapsed to the ground.
The pyramid of cans nearby crumbled like a metaphor.
His face smacked the dusty carpet, surrounded by wrappers, receipts, and a CD labeled "Private Files: Do Not Open."
He started to dread the situation. Fear eating his mind as despair took over. And then, at the very last moment, after realizing that this wasn't just a passing pain, he prayed.
'God… if you exist… please bring me to Phonemia-chan's world in my next life…'
Clark Anima, 30 years old.
Official cause of death: Excessive self-stimulation–induced myocardial arrest....