A Weird Revenge NTR System (Beta)

Morning seeped into Kaito Nakamura's dorm, a sluggish gray light creeping through the streaked window, the drizzle outside a faint whisper against the glass. The room was a disaster—shattered lamp fragments glinting dully, empty cans scattered like fallen soldiers, blood smears crusting the floor from last night's breakdown. The clock blinked 8:14 AM, its red digits hazy in the gloom, the air thick with the sour stench of sweat, despair, and the stale hum of his laptop, silent now on the desk where that eerie red popup had flared.

Kaito stirred, slumped against the bed, his skinny frame stiff and sore, hoodie crusted with dried tears and rain. His glasses—cracked, bent—lay tangled in the wreckage nearby, his eyes raw and swollen, vision a blurry smear without them. His black hair hung in greasy clumps, scalp scratched bloody from nails that had clawed in the dark, a dull ache he barely felt. He groaned—low, ragged—pushing himself up, joints creaking, his breath a sour rasp. He didn't know when he'd slept—last night blurred into a nightmare of Aiko's pics, her body spread wide, fucked raw, and that glitchy ad, "Activate Revenge NTR System Beta?" He'd clicked "Yes," tears streaming, rage driving him, and then… nothing. Blackout. A dream, he thought, shaky and hollow—a twisted, messed-up dream.

He fumbled for his phone—cracked screen flickering where it lay in the mess—and squinted, heart thudding, half-expecting it to be dead. It glowed—jagged lines spiderwebbing the glass—and there it was: an app, uninvited, titled "RNTR 0.1 (Beta)" in stark white text on a black icon, sitting there like a scar. His breath caught—cold, sharp—realization slamming him: it wasn't a dream. The pics, her filth, that popup—all real, all last night, all him breaking. His thumb hovered—a sick twist in his gut—and he tapped it, screen flaring, but it showed… nothing. A blank black void, no menu, no text, just emptiness staring back.

"What the hell?" he muttered—voice a hoarse crack, shredded from sobbing—eyes narrowing, confusion swirling with dread. A prank? he thought—some online ad, some virus screwing with me? He swiped—dragging, desperate—but the app wouldn't budge, stuck there, mocking him. Then he held it—delete option flashing—and pressed, hard, watching it vanish, the icon gone like smoke. He stared—screen clean now, empty—and laughed, a pitiful, broken sound, echoing in the quiet. Stupid, he rasped—just a glitch, a cruel joke, nothing real. His chest loosened—relief, frail and thin—but the pics lingered, a shadow he couldn't shake.

He didn't feel like going to the university—couldn't face it, couldn't move—sinking back against the bed, knees to his chest, hoodie swallowing him like a shroud. His phone buzzed—a text, Aiko's name glowing—and his stomach lurched, nausea rising, but he didn't look—just glared at it, fist clenching tight, knuckles whitening. Her, he thought—her lies, her cheating, her "Hey babe" bullshit—and his fist slammed the wall—hard, sudden—pain exploding up his arm, plaster cracking, a raw howl tearing free. He curled up—hand throbbing, blood seeping from split knuckles—cradling it, panting, tears stinging anew.

It buzzed again—a call now, her name flashing—and he froze, glaring, rage bubbling, wanting to smash it, scream, let her have it. But he didn't—couldn't—his hand shook, lifting it, thumb swiping accept before he could stop. "Hey," he croaked—voice flat, forced—pretending, a mask slipping on despite the storm inside. "What's up?"

"Kaito! Morning, babe," she chirped—bright, bubbly, vanilla-sweet—her tone a knife twisting his guts. "You okay? You sound off. Coming to university today?" He clenched his jaw—wanted to yell, I saw you, you liar, I know—but bit it back, hard, coppery taste flooding his mouth.

"Yeah, fine," he lied—smooth, numb—swallowing the bile. "Just woke up. I'll be there." She giggled—light, carefree—and he winced, nausea churning, but kept talking—small, normal stuff—how's class, got plans?—as if nothing happened, as if her betrayal wasn't burned into him, as if he hadn't shattered last night. She hung up—"See you soon, xo"—and he dropped the phone, staring at his bloody hand, the wall's dent, a hollow laugh escaping—pitiful, weak.

He dragged himself up—legs leaden, room spinning—and yanked on his sneakers—worn, damp—laces fraying as he tied them. His hoodie stayed—crusted, rank—sticking to his skin, glasses shoved on, cracked lenses smudging his view. Gohoku University loomed—its gray sprawl waiting—but he went, stumbling out, hall buzzing fluorescent, campus wet and cold beyond the glass. He didn't want her—didn't want to see her—but his feet moved, autopilot pulling him to the lie he'd spun.

She surprised him—waiting by the lecture hall, a blur of pink sweater and dark hair, radiant, flawless. "Babe!" she squealed—bounding over, arms looping his neck—and kissed him—soft, wet, her lips on his, vanilla flooding his nose. His guts twisted—nausea surging, a sick lurch—and he froze, her warmth a lie against his cold ruin. She pulled back—grinning, eyes glinting—and he forced a smile—tight, fake—bile burning his throat. "Missed you," she purred—hand brushing his chest—and he nodded, mute, stomach roiling.

No one was looking—her friends ahead, students drifting—so he wiped his mouth—quick, rough—sleeve scraping her off, a shudder running through him. Eyes caught him—sideways glances, smirks from guys in the crowd—pitiful, mocking, poor nerd, doesn't know—and his chest burned—humiliation flaring, rage simmering—but he swallowed it, hard, staring at her back as she skipped ahead, keychain bell jingling. They know, he thought—they all know—but then it hit: what if it's not so bad?

Denial crept in—slow, tempting—nothing happened, it's a lie, a dream. His girlfriend—cute, faithful Aiko—smiled at him, kissed him, loved him. They were happy—walks, snacks, her giggles—nothing broke, nothing real beyond this. He clenched his fist—pain throbbing, blood crusting—but latched onto it—she's mine, she's good, we're fine. The pics, the app, the rage—unreal, a glitch, a prank he'd laughed off. This reality—her hand in his, her voice bright—was better, safer, sweeter than the dark.

He followed her—steps heavy, forced—past the smirks, the whispers, into the lecture hall, her chatter washing over him—"Got a test, ugh, save me"—and he nodded, grinning, playing along. Nothing happened, he chanted—she's cute, she's faithful, we're happy—building the lie, brick by brick, a fragile wall against the truth. He didn't look at his phone—didn't check her text—let it sit, a dead weight in his pocket, the app gone, the pics buried. Denial wasn't bad—it's fine, it's good—and he stayed there, curling into this world, pitiful or not, clutching the dream over the real.