In my past life, I lived in a living hell stacked high with ISO standards and customer requirements.
In the company, I was at the very bottom of the food chain—a Quality Assurance (QA) engineer. It was a position where "the father doesn't love, and the mother doesn't care." The production line thought you were nitpicking, the sales team thought you were blocking their path, and the boss only used you as a human shield.
That week, the entire factory fell into a state of collective madness just to prepare for an external audit by a Japanese client. But in reality, I was the only one going mad; everyone else was just busy shifting the blame.
I arrived at the office at 8:00 AM and found myself staring blankly at the empty parking lot at midnight. The obsessiveness of the Japanese was notorious. From the production line’s inspection records and procurement’s supplier evaluations to the HR and general affairs' training files—all those scraps of paper that should have been managed by each respective department ended up dumped onto my desk like a mountain of trash.
"You're QA. You know the process best. Just handle it while you're at it." The hypocritical smile on my supervisor's face made me sick to my stomach even now.
I became the sole lubricant for the entire factory, attempting to patch up thousands of fabricated and falsified data points. For five consecutive days, what filled my coffee cup wasn't a morning pick-me-up—it was my literal life support. For five days and five nights, I never left that creaking office chair, until my vision blurred and my heart rate began to exhibit a clear "non-statistical anomaly." My body was issuing its final warning: this machine had been driven to its absolute breaking point.
At the exact moment my heart stopped, my fingers were still resting on Ctrl + C.
Before my consciousness snapped, the last thing I saw wasn't a slideshow of my life memories, but the defect rate curve on the computer monitor that stubbornly refused to go down.
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself sitting in front of a mottled wooden table, surrounded by a swirling nebula of deep purple light.
Two apples sat upon the table.
One was a crisp, vibrant green, radiating a cold, bluish light. A voice in my head told me that it represented "Rebirth." If I chose it, I could return to the past with all my memories intact. I could rely on my future knowledge to avoid my death trap, buy stocks to amass a fortune, and restart my life as a "more hardworking, wealthier" ordinary person.
The other apple was blood-red. Its surface was un-uniformly mottled, yet it radiated an alluring, warm crimson glow. It represented "Desire." What it granted was the authority to alter reality itself—allowing the world to operate entirely according to my logic.
I let out a mocking, cold sneer.
"Hard work? Rebirth? Don't make me laugh."
I was hardworking enough in my past life, and what did it get me? No matter how hard I worked, I was nothing more than fuel for my boss to buy a new sports car.
Without a second thought, my hand reached straight for the blood-red apple.
The moment I bit into it, the juice—thick with a demonic stench and the metallic taste of rust—burst in my mouth. It was the taste of power, carrying a viscous, sickeningly sweet tang. I felt the blood throughout my body begin to flow in reverse. My heart beat anew, and my mind generated a colossal net. A net that was currently trembling with excitement for the hunt.
The nebula before me began to contract, and from the darkness, the outline of a classroom gradually materialized. The buzzing of cicadas, the whirring of the ceiling fan, the scraping of chalk against the blackboard, and the gentle breeze rustling a young girl’s hair.
"Secretary Yan." I shifted into a more comfortable posture, my tone as flat as if I were calling an employee into a boardroom meeting.
"I'm here..." Yan Peiyu's voice was as quiet as a mosquito. She looked around cautiously, her body trembling slightly with fear, utterly terrified that her classmates might overhear this taboo title. She had no idea that under this massive "net" of mine, as long as I didn't want it, this classroom was an absolute acoustic vacuum. No one could hear her trembling voice.
"Go up to the podium and conduct the data briefing on Zhong Peixuan."
I casually picked up the remote control from the teacher's desk. With a low whir, the projector screen lowered right in front of the entire class. The white fabric obscured the trigonometry formulas on the blackboard, leaving only the all-too-familiar PPT interface.
Like a precisely programmed piece of machinery, Yan Peiyu walked stiffly to the front of the lecture hall and picked up the laser pointer. The white projector light hit her school uniform, casting its glow over the heads of the students below who were buried in their exam papers, completely oblivious to what was happening.
"Name: Zhong Peixuan. Only daughter in her family. Three-围 specifications: 36A, 24, 36..." Yan Peiyu reported loudly to the PPT, her clear, cold voice echoing through the silent classroom.
Sitting in Director Guo's office chair, I crossed my legs like a big boss inspecting a factory floor, leisurely listening to this "report."
"According to the current data analysis, the target object's characteristics are distributed as follows: Sensitivity 57%, Cuteness 42%, Lewdness 1%, while Breast Contribution stands at 0%..."
The screen flipped, displaying a bar chart and an upward-trending line graph—the kind of diagram that would accelerate any engineer's heart rate but utterly confuse a layman.
"Secretary Yan," I tapped the desk, pointing at the varying column bars and the sharp rising line on the screen. "To the readers... no, explain to these mortals who are still writing their exam papers: what is the meaning of a Pareto Chart?"
Yan Peiyu took a deep breath. Though her cheeks flushed a deep crimson from shame, her long-standing professional discipline as the class president kept her tone clear and composed:
"The core purpose of a Pareto Chart is to 'identify priorities.' In quality control, this is known as the 80/20 Rule. That is to say, 80% of the results are often determined by 20% of the critical factors. As long as we can strike precisely at this vital 20%, we can gain absolute, overwhelming control."
She pointed the red laser dot at the tallest bar on the chart.
"Look at this chart. In the numerical analysis of Zhong Peixuan, the single metric of 'Sensitivity' accounts for 57% of the total contribution." Yan Peiyu's voice sounded exceptionally distinct in the quiet room. "This implies that as long as we lock onto and develop this 57%, the remaining low-contribution variables—such as 'Cuteness' or 'Lewdness'—will undergo a violent, cascading collapse. This is the highest efficiency of absolute dominance."
Looking at that nearly vertical sensitivity curve alongside that miserable 0% breast value, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. "This data... isn't this just the eternal zero, Kayano Kaede?"
"Report concluded!" Yan Peiyu put away the laser pointer. A flash of shameful breakdown crossed her eyes, yet her body maintained a perfectly professional bow.
On the projector screen ahead, a highly lewd data report objectifying a young girl was on full display. Meanwhile, below the stage, the students continued their furious scribbling on their test papers, and Director Guo was still patrolling the back of the classroom. This ultimate sense of absurdity caused the dark blood within my veins to boil and throb with intense exhilaration.
I stood up. My hands moved like a pair of precision infrared scanners, no longer satisfied with virtual sensing. I walked directly into the narrow aisle, my hands sweeping past the chests of the female students on either side without the slightest hesitation.
Through the thin fabric of their school uniforms, different textures sent feedback to my fingertips—some were as rigid as freshly molded plastic parts from a factory, while others were as soft and yielding as liquid silicone.
Out of sheer occupational habit, my brain automatically labeled and specified every single pair of breasts:
“Area A, No. 01. Sag rate: 5%. Judgment: Accepted.”“Area A, No. 02. Areola diameter deviation. Judgment: Conditional Acceptance via Concession.”
The entire class remained buried in their studies; even Director Guo happened to turn her back to organize her lecture notes. Under the blanket of my authority, this crude "100% full-inspection" of mine was nothing more than a passing blur of a proctoring teacher in their eyes. I savored this power to pinch, squeeze, and arbitrarily determine their worth at will, the dark blood inside me roaring with excitement at the reality of the touch.
I withdrew my hands, now coated with the residual warmth of various schoolgirls, my fingertips tingling with a faint heat.
"Let's go, Secretary Yan."
Stepping forward at a leisurely pace, I walked toward the sensitive and cute Zhong Peixuan, with my secretary following closely behind.
Zhong Peixuan seemed to sense the suffocating pressure approaching from behind. Guided by that 57% sensitivity rating, her slender shoulders flinched violently. Her fingers, gripping her mechanical pencil, turned white from over-exertion.
I leaned down close to her ear, my hands slowly wrapping around her front. My fingertips hovered just a fraction above those 57% sensitive nerves, feeling the minute tremors radiating from the surface of her skin.
I looked at Secretary Yan, who was faithfully holding her pen, ready to log every single upcoming data point. The corner of my mouth curled into an incomparably wicked arc:
"Let us see just how... delicious this 57% sensitivity will turn out to be."
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