Clack… click… tap-tap-tap… clack-clack…
The rhythmic tapping of keyboards echoed through the dull, grey office. Dozens of workers sat glued to their screens, their eyes blank, fingers moving on instinct alone.
It was a scene of quiet suffering—souls chained to deadlines, tasks, and invisible expectations.
Among them sat a young man.
He looked like he was in his mid-twenties, but the heavy dark circles under his glasses and his hunched posture told a different story. His tired eyes had lost their shine. Just another cog in the corporate machine.
Mark Cain.
Like the rest, he was busy. Buried in the endless pile of work dumped on him day after day. He didn't complain. He didn't speak. He just typed.
Until—
"Mark Cain, please come to the office."
The robotic voice rang from a corner speaker. Everyone ignored it, like always.
Mark blinked, sighed quietly, and got up. His joints cracked as he stood. He stretched once, then shuffled toward the glass office across the floor.
Inside, a man around 35 sat behind a desk, headphones on, staring at his laptop like it held the secrets of the universe. He didn't look up right away. When he finally did, he removed his headphones and gestured to a tall stack of documents on the desk.
"Can you finish this before the week ends?"
Mark stared at the papers.
A small sigh escaped his lips.
'That's not even my work… why the hell are you giving me your leftovers again?'
He didn't say that out loud, of course.
What he did say was:
"Sorry, that's not possible. I already have too much on my plate. Even if I drop everything else, one day isn't enough."
Flat. Emotionless. Like always.
The man frowned.
"Then let me make it easier for you," he said. "Finish this by the end of the week… or hand in your resignation. Simple."
Mark didn't flinch. He looked at the stack. Then at the man.
Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.
He placed it on the desk.
"Here."
Then turned around and walked out.
The man blinked, confused. Slowly, he looked down at the envelope.
"Resignation Letter."
Bold letters. Black ink.
His mouth opened in surprise. He stood up, as if to stop Mark… but froze.
He sat back down.
"…I can't risk my position."
He whispered to himself.
Then he pressed the mic button.
"Mike Carson, please come to the office."
Someone else would take the fall now. That was the rule here. Always someone else.
Mark returned to his desk, packed his things—just a backpack and a half-empty water bottle—and walked out.
No one stopped him. No one asked questions. No goodbyes. No small talk.
In this office, no one knew anyone. There was no time to form bonds. No space to be human.
That was the real face of Dark Company.
They drained you dry. Mind, body, and spirit. And when you were done, they tossed you aside like trash.
Mark had been like that. A drone. A zombie. But recently… he'd started thinking.
'Is this it? Is this life?'
He had enough.
He was an orphan, but his parents—both teachers—had left him a house before passing away. He never had much, but it was enough.
He joined this job to "experience society," to earn money, buy games, maybe even find a girlfriend.
But that dream turned to ash the moment he saw the truth.
This world was not built for people like him.
From the moment he joined school at age four, his path had been decided. Eighteen years of studying, chasing grades, fighting for degrees… only to be paid a few thousand a month. A worthless paper in a world ruled by connections, not skill.
He was lucky his parents had taught him at home, or he'd be drowning in student loans like the others.
It had been five years since he started working.
Now… it was time to return to the only dream that made sense.
Becoming a full-time NEET.
No more office. No more fake smiles. No more wage slavery.
Why?
Because this world had nothing to offer him. A society where "who you know" mattered more than "what you know" was not a place he wanted to belong to.
He had some savings. Not much, but enough.
If he wore simple clothes, ate cheap food, avoided luxury, and lived quietly… he could survive. Games, internet, novels, and peace.
That was all he needed.
As he stepped outside the office building, Mark looked up.
The sun.
"How long has it been since I last saw the sky?"
He whispered to himself.
The warmth hit his face. He closed his eyes for a moment.
It felt unreal.
So long… he'd been staring at screens, trapped in fluorescent light.
He sighed as he started walking again.
Dressed in the same wrinkled office clothes he hadn't changed out of in three days, he trudged down the street.
The scent of his once-expensive perfume had turned stale, clinging awkwardly to his body.
Luckily, he wasn't the type to sweat much, or else the smell would've drawn stares.
The world around him buzzed with activity. People were busy — some rushing in tailored suits, others holding tablets or phones, heads bowed like they were praying to digital gods.
Office workers, most of them. Probably in sales or client services, the kind who always had to smile no matter how dead they were inside.
Mark wasn't one of them. He never had the personality for sales. Social interaction was always… complicated.
Not because he was shy — no, he could talk just fine when he wanted to — but he never had the urge to fake enthusiasm.
While others mingled or went to after-parties, he buried his head in novels, manga, or old-school JRPGs.
If given the choice between awkward small talk over beer with coworkers and a solo night reading a romcom manga? The answer was always obvious.
Up ahead, a group of women passed by, chatting and laughing, dressed in flowy summer frocks, their wide-brimmed hats shielding them from the afternoon sun.
Their hips swayed with each step, the kind of motion that made time slow down for men like Mark. His eyes glanced for only a second too long.
He gulped quietly, expression blank.
'Damn, I wouldn't mind burying my face in those buns all day. Even drink the juice straight from the source…'
His thoughts were crude, sure — but not out of the ordinary.
He wasn't going to act on them, of course. Still, if someone asked him whether he'd decline the offer if it was handed to him?
'Not in a million years.'
Mark was a man. A normal man. He had urges, he had fantasies.
Not the romantic kind, at least not usually. Sometimes, when lying alone at night, he'd imagine holding someone close, just cuddling in the dark while feeling the warmth of another body.
Other times, well… those thoughts were far less innocent.
He didn't think it was wrong.
In fact, he found it more suspicious if a guy his age didn't think about sex.
Either he had too much experience, or he was into something else entirely.
Mark didn't have experience — not even a first kiss. But the dreams? Oh, he had those in abundance.
"Kyaaa!"
Just as Mark was slipping back into his usual daydreams, a sudden, blood-chilling scream cut through the air. His daze shattered. His eyes shot forward.
A man was running toward the group of women he'd just been ogling — a glinting knife in his hand, rage in his eyes.
Before Mark could even think, his body moved.
He didn't decide to help. He didn't weigh the consequences. His legs just sprinted forward, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.
One second, he was daydreaming about hips. The next, he was standing between the women and a maniac with a blade.
'What the hell am I doing?'
He didn't know if it was some buried heroic instinct or just sheer dumb reflex — maybe the brain shuts off when it senses danger. Either way, it was too late now.
The assailant's eyes flared. The knife that was meant for someone else swerved — and found Mark instead.
He stood wide open. No defense. No stance. Just a wide-eyed idiot with arms limp and chest exposed.
"Fuck—!"
The blade plunged into his stomach. Time slowed. He saw it — the steel piercing his shirt, slipping past skin, slicing through something deep and vital. His fingers finally moved, reaching to grab the attacker's arm too late.
A wave of pain slammed into his senses like a truck. A pain he'd never imagined before. Hot. Burning. Violent.
Tears welled in his eyes, not from fear — but from rage.
A white-hot anger exploded from somewhere buried deep in his soul. His hand, weak and trembling, clenched into a tight fist.
And then—
Crack!
His fist flew like lightning, a desperate uppercut that landed squarely on the bastard's chin. There was a sharp snap. Something broke — maybe his own bones — but Mark didn't care. The pain in his stomach drowned out everything.
The attacker flew backward and hit the pavement hard with a thud, completely unconscious.
And Mark collapsed.
His knees buckled. Blood poured down his waist. He felt himself falling like a puppet with its strings cut.
The world erupted into chaos.
"Someone call an ambulance!"
"Murder! Murder!"
"Ahh! What do I do? What do I do?!"
"Why? Why?! Why?!"
"Call the police, hurry!!"
Voices blurred into static. Mark felt himself fading — the pain beginning to dull, replaced by a terrifying numbness. The soft warmth of someone's lap cradled his head. A gentle hand tapped at his cheek.
"Stay with me! Please—don't close your eyes!"
It was one of the women — the one with the sunflower hat. Her face hovered above him, her eyes wide with panic.
Just minutes ago, he was ogling her hips. Now she looked like a goddess to him. Divine. Ethereal.
He tried to say something. Anything. But his voice wouldn't come. His mouth moved. No sound.
The light in his eyes dimmed. His heartbeat slowed. The sounds of the crowd faded into nothing. Even the soft touch of the woman beneath him felt distant now. Like he was being dragged away from the world.
He closed his eyes.
'If there is a next life for me…'
A tear slid down the side of his cheek.
'Then I want to fuck every beautiful woman I see… Make them fall for me — head over heels… I don't want to live another life of regrets…'