Black Pill. A popular trend on TikTok.
Short clips. Grim music. Before-and-after photos slowed to a crawl. Men staring into cameras with hollow eyes, listing statistics like verdicts handed down by a judge.
It carried a controversial worldview—one that claimed life, especially dating, was already decided. That outcomes weren't earned, but assigned. That genetics ruled everything: facial symmetry, height, race, bone structure, frame. No amount of effort could overcome a bad roll at birth.
For some, it was just content.
For others, it was a conclusion.
---
Inside a cramped apartment room, a young man was doing push-ups on the cold tiled floor. His breath was steady, controlled, each rep clean. Sweat darkened the fabric of his T-shirt as music blasted through his earphones.
🎶 "I'm so lucky, lucky…" 🎶
The irony of the song didn't escape him—but he let it play anyway.
His name was Travis. A college student studying IT. Early twenties. Alone.
He was a byproduct of online ideology, molded over years by algorithms that knew exactly what to show him next.
Like most men, it hadn't started with the black pill. It started with the red pill.
---
In high school, Travis had been invisible.
Fat. Unattractive. Socially awkward. The kind of kid who sat in the back of the class, hoodie pulled up, eyes glued to his phone. Anime after school. Porn late at night. Endless scrolling. No ambition. No confidence. No presence.
Girls didn't reject him— They didn't even notice him.
When red pill content found him, it felt like a lifeline. The message was simple: "Put in the work, and you'll be rewarded."
So he did.
He hit the gym. Hard. Day after day. Push, pull, legs and repeat.
He cut weight. Learned discipline. Built muscle. Watched his body transform in the mirror. Compliments started coming. Not many—but enough.
By his early college years, Travis was fit. Lean. Broad-shouldered. He walked straighter. Spoke louder.
His personality was still trash—awkward, guarded, insecure—but that didn't seem to matter anymore. He was mildly attractive now. And yet… nothing changed. No dates. No attention. No desire directed his way.
He told himself the next step was money. Because muscles didn't pay rent. So he chased cash.
Trading videos. Crypto threads. Side hustles. Overnight success stories. Charts, indicators, Discord groups promising "the next big move." He studied, tried, failed. Lost money. Tried again.
Nothing stuck. Now he had a good body—and an empty wallet. That's when the black pill found him. And this time, it didn't feel like motivation. It felt like permission. It's not your fault. That was the message that sank its claws into him.
It wasn't his effort that was lacking.
It wasn't his discipline.
It wasn't his grind.
It was his genetics.
His family roots.
His facial structure.
His bone frame.
His height.
His lack of girth.
His tongue.
Everything he couldn't change.
The work hadn't failed—He had been doomed from the start.
As Travis lowered himself into another push-up, his chest suddenly tightened. A sharp pressure bloomed beneath his sternum, stealing his breath.
He froze.
"What the—"
Pain surged, hot and crushing. His vision blurred as his arms buckled. Travis collapsed onto the floor, gasping, fingers clawing at his chest.
His body—built unnaturally fast over years—betrayed him.
Steroids. Cycles he told himself were "just temporary." Shortcuts justified by insecurity and impatience. He had ignored the warnings, the risks, the quiet voice telling him to slow down.
The pressure intensified.
Then—
Boom.
His body went still.
The music continued playing through his earphones, cheerful and mocking.
🎶 "I'm so lucky, lucky…" 🎶
Travis lay motionless on the cold floor. The screen on his phone dimmed. And just like that— Travis was gone.
...
Nerima, Tokyo.
Inside a cramped two-story apartment tucked between identical concrete buildings, a young man lay sprawled across a thin futon. His orange hair stuck out in every direction, flattened on one side and wild on the other, as if he'd collapsed without a second thought.
The room was a disaster.
Dust gathered in the corners in thick, neglected clumps, giving off a faint, musky smell that clung to the air. Clothes—wrinkled shirts, socks, and crumpled jeans—were scattered across the floor like casualties of a long-forgotten battle. An overflowing trash bin sat near the desk, stuffed with convenience-store packaging and far too many used tissues.
It was the kind of room that told a story without saying a word.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
The young man sucked in a sharp breath, heart pounding as his gaze darted around the room. The low ceiling. The unfamiliar walls. The stale air. Nothing felt right.
He bolted upright on the futon.
' Where am I?' He thought.
His body felt… strange. Lighter than usual. Smaller. When he looked down at his hands, they weren't the ones he remembered. Slimmer fingers. Different scars. Different proportions.
"What the hell…?"
He scrambled to his feet and rushed into the bathroom, nearly slipping on discarded clothes along the way.
The first thing he checked was instinctive. Still there. That only made it worse. He stepped closer to the mirror.
Orange hair. Tired eyes. A face he recognized instantly. His hands rose, touching his cheeks, his jaw, tracing features he'd seen countless times on a screen.
"I know this guy…" his voice came out hoarse. "Ain't thi—"
Reality crashed down on him.
"Fuck!"
His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees on the cold bathroom floor.
' No. No way.'
There was no denying it anymore.
He had become Kazuya Kinoshita.
The infamous, painfully pathetic protagonist of Rent-A-Girlfriend. The walking disaster. The simp. The cuck of the century.
As he knelt there, dizzy and stunned, memories flooded into his head—not his own, but Kazuya's. Embarrassing moments. Desperate thoughts. Awkward dates. Lies stacked on lies.
It all stitched together until it landed on his current situation.
' I'm still dating that dumb hoe, Mami,' he realized bitterly. ' Fuck… it's been a month already. I know she's going to dump me. Any day now.'
He pushed himself up slowly, rubbing his face.
' Man, this sucks.'
He used the toilet on autopilot, the unfamiliar sensation only reinforcing how wrong everything felt. Afterward, he washed his hands, then splashed cold water onto his face, staring back at the reflection like it might change if he looked hard enough.
It didn't.
He stepped back into the main room and took everything in again—this time with clearer eyes.
The mess. The smell. The absolute lack of self-respect baked into every corner of the apartment.
"On top of being lame," he muttered to himself, "this guy was also a pig."
He exhaled slowly. This was his reality now. And whether he liked it or not— He was going to have to deal with it.
After a long—very long—sigh, he finally moved.
Complaining wouldn't change anything.
He started with the clothes. One by one, he picked up the scattered shirts, socks, and crumpled jeans, dumping them into the washing machine in the corner of the apartment.
The faint smell of sweat and neglect clung to the fabric, making him wrinkle his nose as he shut the lid.
Next came the clutter.
He sorted through loose papers, empty food containers, and random junk that had no reason to exist in the same space. He swept the floor thoroughly, the broom scraping up weeks—maybe months—of dust and debris.
After that, he ran the vacuum, the low hum filling the apartment as the gray filth disappeared into the machine.
When he opened the balcony door, cool morning air rushed in, pushing out the stale, suffocating smell that had settled into the room. Sunlight spilled across the floor, illuminating a space that finally looked… livable.
Then came the worst part.
The trash bin.
He hesitated for a moment before grabbing a pair of gloves. When he lifted the bin, the contents shifted with a soft, disgusting sound. He didn't bother looking inside—he already knew. Used tissues. Too many of them.
"Jesus…"
Holding his breath, he tied the bag tightly and carried it out, dumping it without a second thought. When he came back inside and peeled the gloves off, he immediately washed his hands—twice.
Only then did he stop.
He looked around the room.
Clean floor. Organized desk. Fresh air drifting in from the balcony.
' Great, ' he thought. ' Now it looks like someone actually lives here.'
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up.
Mami: Can we meet today before class starts?
His eyes lingered on the message for a second. ' Yeah… it's today,' he thought.
Before responding, his thumb drifted to another app—habit more than intention. His banking app loaded, the screen blinking once before the balance appeared.
He froze.
¥2,345,180
Two million yen.
He stared at the number, rereading it slowly to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
"…Huh."
In his past life, that amount would've felt impossible—almost unreal. Here, though, the memories sliding into place told him exactly where it came from. Savings. Family support. Money that should've been a foundation, not something burned away on rented affection and impulse decisions.
He sat down on the edge of the futon.
' So this is what he had,' he thought. ' And still chose to waste it.'
Not broke.
Just reckless.
He let out a slow breath, feeling something settle inside him.
'Alright… this changes things.'
Two million yen meant time. Options. Breathing room. It meant he didn't need to panic, didn't need shortcuts, didn't need to sell dignity for attention.
' With money handled, ' he thought, ' I can focus on my body. My skills. My future.'
His gaze drifted toward the clean room—the open balcony, the sunlight, the quiet.
Then a thought surfaced, steady and dangerous in its calm.
A healthy body. A stable bank account.
A second chance with full awareness.
He leaned back slightly, lips curling into a faint, humorless smile.
"…I might actually win this life."
TO BE CONTINUED