My name is Nil, Ipomoea Nil.
My name comes from the Ipomoea flower, which symbolizes affection and unity. The director of the orphanage—whom I consider my father—told me that when they found me, there was a blue morning glory next to me.
Aside from this poetic origin, I have a slender build and I'm somewhat tall, measuring one meter seventy. I have pale, delicate skin; no matter how hard I try to get a tan, I only manage to turn as red as a tomato... and end up with irritated skin.
The problem is obvious: I have an androgenous appearance and fail to project my masculinity through my looks. Because of this, my peers and the kids at the orphanage often tease me.
I grew up without knowing my parents. I didn't even know their names, let alone if they were still alive; I've been an orphan for as long as I can remember. Although the director took care of me, sometimes I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to have a real family. He is in his early fifties, but he enjoys enviable health and tons of vitality. I always ask him if he's about to die, but unfortunately, his answers are never funny... at least to me.
—Director, aren't you tired yet? You're always going full throttle, I'm afraid you'll literally collapse on us one day.
—Huh? What are you talking about? You can't even develop decent biceps and yet you talk like an insufferable brat.
—I wonder... why do you have to go to the extreme of belittling my effort in training?
—It's just that your effort is practically zero, so give up.
—Pleh...
I'm sure the director is simply shy and that's why he acts irritable all the time. I'm sure...
That said, I tend to be distant with strangers. I rely heavily on my close circle, but thanks to the fact that I control my environment well, I never suffered serious bullying or rejection. Curiously, when I'm in small groups, my social skills shine and disguise my shyness. It's as if I had a "second personality" ready for demanding occasions.
Sometimes, girls ask me how I take care of my skin or how I keep my hair so silky. I have no idea, so please, if they are going to approach me to ask something, let it be to confess their love to me.
In high school I didn't interact much, but I didn't become a hermit. I went out out of social obligation, which led me to a brief rebellious phase that I managed to shake off upon entering university. I am proud to say that I am good at housework, carpentry, and farming, since at the orphanage we sell vegetables to help ourselves out. However, in the real world, those things seem trivial.
I applied for a part-time job to save up and pay for my studies. The director insists on paying for them himself, but I feel he has already given me too much and I want to ease his burden. Ever since I started university, everything became chaotic: studying, working, and helping out at the orphanage with great difficulty...
I enrolled in Psychology with the hope of understanding people better and being more sensitive. I also wanted to overcome my shyness and, why not, try to flirt with someone. I can't deny that I'm a bit perverted, even if I don't show it in public.
And today I am on a cruise! In a very good mood! I am super excited!
Why? Because I managed to board for free. Some classmates urgently needed personnel for a field study on an island for their group thesis and invited me. The food and drinks here are delicious. Don't get me wrong: I eat little, but I lose my mind over desserts. This mille-feuille is incredible. Huh? Am I getting carried away by sweets? Please! I'm a man! But dessert is the exception to the rule.
BANG!
A gunshot? What else could it be?
What is going on? This can't be real. Terrorists?
The odds are high. Very high.
I feel my blood run cold. Several men in plainclothes are carrying heavy weapons and aiming at the passengers. I am alone on deck and it seems they haven't seen me. My first instinct was to jump into the ocean, but it's too risky; I'd better look for a place to hide.
However... it happened. It's not that I wanted to do it, it's that I had to do it.
I just killed a terrorist with a gunshot to the head. His brains splattered across the blood-soaked floor after a close-quarters struggle. I had hidden in a cabin closet, but a man inspecting the rooms found me. My body moved on its own; we fought, I managed to snatch his weapon, and I fired.
Huh? I think I threw up a little. But I feel no guilt. Could it be because they are terrorists? No, thinking like that is wrong. Well, the truth is I don't know what to think. It was a life-or-death situation; I had to pull the trigger to survive.
There are only eight terrorists on board. One down, seven to go. I don't know if I should be doing this, but I'm making my way toward the others. My survival instinct is at its limit, or maybe I'm just dazed. Sometimes I feel like I'm not in control of my movements, as if there were someone else inside me who, until now, had never interfered.
I was about to shoot the leader in the back. I saw the passengers looking at me with hope and, in that instant, my fate was sealed. He turned around and...
Ah... I was shot. I got hit. My vision blurs and my head is spinning. I managed to see the crowd rushing the leader. There were people screaming at me. Everything goes dark and I'm cold. A sharp pain throbs in my guts. I hate it.
I hate pain. It has always been my obsession since childhood, something that kept me from playing like the others. And now, with this burning hole in my body and my consciousness fading from blood loss... it's unbearable.
But what hurts the most is that I haven't yet paid the director back for all his kindness. I haven't thanked those I know, nor do I know anything about my parents. I blame myself for being so shy. I hate it. It hurts. My face is wet... it's my own blood.
Everything turned black. And just like that, my life ended.
But...
When I came to, I found myself in an exquisite throne room, decorated with golden frames, although the throne is empty. It's an elegant, baroque-style place, with spirals and crosses. There are weapons—swords, spears, axes—hanging from the walls like ornaments. The ceiling is very high, supported by pillars three times wider than me.
Dwell on what happened is no use; I feel like there's no turning back. Remembering the gunshot makes my stomach hurt, even though I no longer have any wounds. I am left with only bitter feelings.
—Heroes, I offer you my heartfelt apologies for His Majesty's absence at this moment!
What? Seriously? Shouldn't it be the king who speaks to us? I imagine it'll be a sixty-year-old man about to retire, asking us to defeat a demon lord or a dragon. The typical fantasy scenario. I hope my imagination doesn't fail me and he shows up with his jeweled cape and scepter.
But setting aside the complications... wait!
What the hell?!
I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn't notice: I am only wearing a white shirt, one so big that it's huge on me. Below the hem, I see some white, flawless, hairless thighs. The most shocking thing is that those tiny feet and that petite stature... are mine.
In my world, I always slept only in a shirt and underwear. But walking around like that in an orphanage would be idiotic; and here, right now, it is terribly inappropriate. I am not wearing underwear, just this shirt that barely covers what's essential.
Although, come to think of it, the breeze is nice. Besides, it seems I've lost my "faithful companion" who accompanied me for twenty years. I feel a bit annoyed about that.
Should I accept this situation or not? I feel strangely calm, even though it's hard to process that this is real. I have a thousand doubts, but I can't confirm them right now. Being alone among strangers is unsettling. There are many soldiers in heavy armor watching us... with a certain "curiosity." When I look at them, they look away, panicked.
I wonder... how will all this end?