Lloyd sighed as he lay on the ground in a pool of blood, the words slipping out like a half-hearted joke. Why did I decide to be the good guy?
It wasn't like my life was some grand adventure worth capping off with a heroic dive. Nah, it was just... ordinary, in the shittiest way. Dad gone before I could even remember his face, Mom bailing like I was yesterday's trash. Bounced around orphanages like a pinball, each one grayer than the last, until the Ashvols scooped me up at twelve. They seemed solid at first—Mike with his quiet nods over dinner, Karen fussing over my hair like I mattered. But then little Timmy came along, all pink and screaming, and that was that. Lights out for Lloyd. Why bother with the kid who isn't really yours? Hand-me-down clothes, forgotten birthdays, meals that tasted like obligation. It could've been worse—no beatings, no locks on the door—but man, the quiet hurt more. Like fading into the wallpaper.
And then there was the secret that made it all twist deeper. I knew Timmy wasn't Mike's. Overheard Karen one night, three sheets to the wind, slurring into her wine glass about Chris next door. "His dick was so big, he knocked me up—something that loser Mike with his micro-penis could never pull off." She laughed like it was punchline gold, oblivious that I was crouched in the hallway shadows, invisible as always. That "invisible presence" thing? It's my curse. People look right through me, like I'm a glitch in the room. Why didn't I spill it? Who'd believe the afterthought kid over the grieving mom? It'd just bounce back, leave me more alone.
School was no escape. Anxiety chewed me up from the inside, turned every hallway into a minefield. Friends? Ha, I had echoes of them—guys who'd nod at practice but ghost me off the field. No girlfriend, unless you count the crushes that fizzled before hello. But football... that was my air. Kicking the ball down the pitch, feeling the thud vibrate up my legs, the world narrowing to that one clean shot. I dreamed big—pro leagues, crowds chanting my name, a life where I wasn't the spare part. Nights blurred into video games, grinding levels till my eyes burned, or flipping through manhwa and manga, losing myself in worlds where underdogs flipped the script. Heroes who started broken and ended unbreakable. Stupid, right? But it kept the quiet at bay.
Practice ran late that afternoon, sun dipping low and sticky with sweat. I slung my bag over my shoulder, humming some dumb tune from a game soundtrack, cutting through the crosswalk like always. That's when I saw her—the little girl, maybe six, frozen like a deer in headlights, pigtails swinging as she chased a runaway doll right into the street. The truck barreled down, brakes screeching too late, a wall of metal and roar. Time slowed, or maybe it just cracked. No thought, just legs moving. I shoved her clear, felt the impact like a sledgehammer to my chest—tires chewing asphalt, grille slamming home. The world flipped, bones snapping like dry twigs under boot. Ribs caved in, sharp edges grinding against lungs that wouldn't fill right, each breath a wet rasp pulling in fire. My leg twisted wrong, thighbone jutting at an angle that made my vision spot with nausea, blood hot and slick pooling under my back. Pain? It wasn't sharp anymore, just this deep, throbbing ache that swallowed everything, like my body's giving up cell by cell.
Screams cut through the haze—hers, high and shattered, then a chorus of voices piling on. "Call 911! Oh God, he's bleeding—somebody help!" Footsteps pounded close, hands pressing down, but they felt miles away. Sirens wailed in the distance, too slow, always too damn slow. I tried to laugh, but it came out a gurgle. The girl was safe, at least. Doll clutched to her chest, staring down with eyes like saucers. Worth it? For a stranger's kid in a world that never gave me the time of day? My eyelids drooped, the edges blurring to black. "Hey... kid," I mumbled, voice thin as smoke. "Next time... watch the road." The pain ebbed, cool now, pulling me under. Why the good guy? Because no one else would. And in the end... that's all I got.
Lloyd's eyes fluttered in the nothing, but there was no light to chase, no dark to sink into—just this endless gray smear, like someone had wiped the world clean with a dirty rag. His body? Gone, or at least it didn't ache anymore. No more grind of broken ribs, no wet cough of blood in his throat. Just... floaty. Disconnected. He figured this was it, the big curtain call, and part of him was almost relieved. No more practices where the coach yelled but never quite saw him, no more dinners staring at the back of Timmy's highchair while Karen cooed like Lloyd was the furniture.
Then the voice hit, smooth as oil on water, not from anywhere specific but everywhere at once. "Why did you save her?"
He blinked—or thought he did. "Who... what?"
"The girl. The one with the doll. You could have walked away. Minding your own business is a virtue in a world that doesn't care. Why risk everything for a stranger? What if she dies tomorrow? Car accident, fever, some drunk asshole with a knife. Your sacrifice—poof. Nothing."
Lloyd's mind snagged on that, the words burrowing like hooks. He floated there, or whatever you call it when there's no up or down, replaying the screech of tires, the tiny body tumbling soft under his push. Her eyes, wide and wet, locking on his for that split second before the truck turned him to paste. "I... don't know. Last-second stupid, I guess. Legs just moved. Or maybe..." He trailed off, the admission sticking in his throat like bad coffee. "Maybe I wanted it over. Life's been a slog, you know? Bouncing homes, fading out in the one that stuck. Not bad enough to off myself, but bad enough to wonder. Why her? Why not me, dragging on like this? She's got pigtails and a doll—innocent. I get the raw end, but she shouldn't."
The voice hummed, low and thoughtful, like an old radio tuning in static. "Not a saint, then. But not heartless. Interesting."
"Yeah, well, invisible kid's gotta have some perks." Lloyd let out a dry chuckle that echoed weird in the void, bouncing back hollow. He thought of school, the way lockers slammed shut on conversations he hovered at the edge of. The football field, where the ball listened when no one else did—thud, arc, goal. Dreams of stadium lights, scouts with clipboards, a contract that said you matter. Nights buried in pixels and panels, heroes rising from shit starts, punching gods or slaying dragons. Escapes, sure, but they left him emptier each time, staring at the ceiling wondering if he'd ever be the one flipping the script.
"And now," the voice pressed, coiling tighter, "what will you do with a second chance? In another world."
Lloyd's non-existent gut twisted. "Wait, what? This some isekai crap? Truck-kun yeets me to fantasy land, I get OP powers, harem of elf girls? That the deal?"
Silence stretched, thick as fog. No answer, just the weight of the question hanging, forcing him to fill it. He shifted—or imagined he did—memories bubbling up unbidden. Orphanage bunks, scratchy blankets and whispers of kids who'd been there longer, tougher, meaner. The Ashvols' kitchen, Mike's tired eyes skipping over him like a skipped track. Karen's slur that night, the hallway shadow swallowing him whole. "If it's real... I dunno. Live, I guess. Not the conqueror type—world domination sounds exhausting, and I'd probably trip over my own sword. No thanks on the, uh, thinking-with-my-dick route either. Seen enough manga side characters crash and burn that way. Just... better. Find a pitch, kick a ball. People who stick around. Eat real food, not microwave slop. Laugh without it feeling forced."
"You are a peculiar soul," the voice murmured, almost amused, like it was flipping through his file and finding footnotes it didn't expect. "Most beg for thrones or treasures. You ask for a game and a meal."
"Yeah, well, low bar. Sue me." But the words felt flimsy now, the void pressing in, making his chest—where his chest used to be—tight. What if it was real? What if this was the out he'd half-prayed for in those dark hours, controller limp in his hands after a loss streak? Not heaven, not hell—just another roll of the dice. He could picture it: waking up small again, or worse, not human. A slime oozing in a dungeon, slurping up adventurers for XP. Or a goblin, scrounging scraps in some fetid cave, the butt of every quest log joke. Random, the voice hadn't said that yet, but he could feel it coming, the hook in the setup.
It did. The gray rippled, like water disturbed by a stone, and the voice clarified, casual as dropping a bomb. "Then live you shall. An opportunity: reincarnation. A new world, a new form. Life, class, circumstances—all random. The wheel turns without favor."
Lloyd's mind blanked, then exploded. "OH FUCK." The curse ripped out raw, echoing wild in the emptiness. Random? As in, could be anything? His thoughts spiraled, a hamster wheel on fire. What if he landed as a bug, some iridescent beetle skittering under leaf litter, lifespan three weeks, crushed by a boot before he could even buzz? Or a fish—god, a fish—in some polluted river, gills flapping against hooks day in, day out, no thumbs for a controller, no field to run. Worse: a demon spawn in hell's nursery, horns itching from day one, destined for pitchfork duty or eternal barbecue. Or human, sure, but in a war zone world, baby in a basket during a siege, arrows whistling overhead before he could crawl. Class? What if it was "eternal loser"—perpetual sidekick, the guy who trips the trap and feeds the dragon? No skills, just anxiety 2.0, invisible in taverns, overlooked for quests. Family? Roll the dice again—abusive lord with a dungeon for disobedient heirs, or street rat in a plague-ridden slum, scraping for crusts while nobles feast. And the world: ice age tundra, where every breath freezes your lungs, or volcanic hellscape, lava rivers mocking your every step. Magic? Maybe he gets fire affinity and bursts into flames his first tantrum. Or healing, but only for others, dooming him to nurse kings while his own bones rot. Friends? Ha—random NPCs who betray for a copper, or beasts that see him as lunch. Love? Forget it; reincarnated as a tree, rooted in place, watching lovers picnic under your branches, whispering sweet nothings you can't join. Or gender swap—sudden curves in a misogynist empire, bartered like chattel. Power? Nah, bottom rung: eternal peasant, plowing fields till your back snaps, revolutions passing you by. And death—oh, the deaths. Poisoned by a bad quest apple, gored by a boar on tutorial hunt, crushed in a cave-in because the "system" glitched. All that buildup, the void's tease of second chances, and it could end in a mud puddle, forgotten before the mud dried. Why even offer? Cruel joke, dangling hope on a frayed string. He wanted to scream, bargain, claw back to the truck's mercy—but the void just hummed, indifferent.
The voice cut through the panic, gentle now, like a pat on the back. "To ease the unknown, a gift. A tool for your journey. What you might call... a system."
Lloyd's racing thoughts stuttered, latching on. "A system? Like, status screens and levels? Skills to grind?"
"Precisely. It will guide, adapt. But details... discover them yourself. They unfold with need."
"Wait, what does it even do? Give me a rundown—strength boosts? Inventory pocket dimension? Come on, throw me a bone here."
Silence again, thicker this time, the gray swirling faster, edges fraying like old film. The voice receded, warm but final. "Safe journey, Lloyd Ashvol. May your kicks find their goal."
"Mother fu—" The word choked off as the void buckled, folding in on itself. Colors bled at the corners—greens and blues he hadn't seen since the field, streaked with impossible purples, the system's promise flickering like a loading bar in his mind's eye. No tutorial pop-up, no cheery voiceover, just a hum building in his core, vibrating with potential or curse, he couldn't tell. His form—or what was left—stretched thin, pulled toward a pinpoint light that wasn't light, more like a tear in the fabric. Worlds spun past in flashes: spired cities under dual moons, endless seas where leviathans breached, forests whispering secrets in tongues he didn't know. Panic surged one last time—*not the bug, not the fish, please, just let me run*—but the pull won, inexorable, unraveling him thread by thread. The light swallowed whole, and Lloyd faded out of existence, the swear dying on lips that weren't there anymore.