The key grated in the lock, turning only on the third try.
Mina stood on the narrow doormat outside her apartment, clutching the strap of the handbag sliding off her shoulder with one hand while frantically rummaging through its leather depths with the other.
Even after nine grueling hours behind a desk, the twenty-year-old looked impeccable - a tailored pencil skirt accentuated her slender figure, an elegant white blouse fastened with pearlescent buttons fit her like a glove, and her dark hair was neatly pinned into a sleek chignon.
Only the increasingly homicidal glare in her eyes and the frantic pawing between her wallet and compact mirror betrayed the fact that her patience was hanging by a razor-thin thread.
Finally nudging the door open with her hip, she slipped into the entryway.
The moment the lock clicked shut behind her, her polished, professional veneer collapsed in a fraction of a second.
Her heavy bag slammed onto the shoe cabinet with a loud thud. Throwing both hands high overhead, Mina indulged in a stretch so deep her spine popped with a faint crack, drawing out a long, guttural groan of pure, unadulterated bliss.
She kicked off her black stiletto heels, casually toeing them into the far corner of the hallway. Resting the back of her head against the cool wood of the door, she let her eyelids flutter shut.
The very first genuine, wide smile of the day blossomed across her weary face.
“Finally. The weekend.”
She breathed those words with such reverent awe it was as if she had just cleared the single most harrowing state licensing exam of her life.
Unfortunately, the memory of her final minutes at the office immediately threatened to sour that newfound state of bliss.
Unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse, she recalled the ping from her email client - arriving exactly twenty minutes before the long-awaited end of her Friday shift - from one of the accounting firm’s VIP clients, complete with an attached invoice correction and that damned, innocuously phrased postscript:
“Could you post this before leaving today? Just real quick, literally three minutes!”
“Of course,” Mina scoffed under her breath, padding toward the bedroom. “A whole damn workweek isn’t enough. No, you just had to wait until Friday at 3:40 PM.”
Entering the document really would have taken three minutes - if, for the love of all that was holy, a single tax ID on the form had matched, and the net total hadn’t completely contradicted the warehouse inventory records.
By the time she sorted out the mess with their utterly clueless procurement clerk, the clock had already chimed 4:30.
“‘Real quick’... Next time, I’m changing your corporate name to ‘Incompetent Idiots’ myself,” she muttered, stepping into her room.
Her corporate elegance dissolved with every passing second inside the apartment.
On her way to the bed, Mina flicked open the pearlescent buttons of her blouse, peeled it off her shoulders, and let it drape over the back of a chair.
The zipper of her skirt gave way with a faint hiss, the dark fabric pooling around her feet onto the floorboards. And then came the moment she had fantasized about since eight that morning - reaching back, she deftly unhooked her tight, underwire bra, sliding the straps down her arms with a drawn-out, delicious moan.
Her petite bust finally breathed free.
In place of her office attire, she pulled on a pair of soft, impossibly short sweat shorts and a thin, loose tank top. The worn, sheer cotton draped softly over her curves with zero padding underneath, clearly outlining the hard nubs of her nipples and the taper of her slender waist.
With one sharp tug, she snapped the tortoiseshell claw clip from her hair, shook her head loose, and bundled the dark locks into a messy bun with a plain elastic band. A few stray tendrils immediately tumbled across her cheeks and neck, but she couldn't care less.
Stepping over to the vanity, she braced her hands against the surface and leveled a look straight into her own reflection.
“All right, Mina. No time to whine,” she told herself aloud, rolling her shoulders back.
The memory of what awaited her in the living room beside the console curled the corners of her mouth into a distinctly indecent, mischievous grin.
The grin vanished as quickly as it had arrived, however.
All it took was a glance toward the bathroom. Laundry was practically overflowing from the wicker hamper, forming a second, equally imposing mountain of towels and bedsheets on the tile floor. Mina wrinkled her nose, glaring at the pile as if the mess had formed out of pure spite.
“Not happening today,” she declared sternly to the laundry heap. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”
With a haughty huff, she averted her eyes and deliberately slammed the bathroom door shut, banishing the problem from existence as she strolled into the kitchen with lazy, unhurried strides.
Popping open the fridge, she lingered for a few seconds, letting the cold draft wash over her flushed shoulders and bare chest before reaching for a can of beer on the bottom shelf.
The aluminum was divinely chilled; when she popped the tab, the crisp snap and juicy hiss of releasing carbonation rang sweeter in the quiet apartment than any symphony.
Tipping the can back, she took three deep, greedy gulps. The icy, bitter liquid slid down her throat, washing away the lingering dregs of workplace stress.
“Ah, yes...” she sighed blissfully, propping her hip against the kitchen counter.
Only now had Friday truly begun.
Can in hand, she padded into the living room. The room was compact, yet the wall was dominated by a gigantic sixty-five-inch television that looked almost comical in the modest space.
Controlled chaos reigned on the low coffee table in front of the sectional: a large tablet, a wireless controller, and a brand-new game case still smelling of shrink-wrap.
Mina set her beer down on the only bare corner of the table. Grabbing the remote, she booted up the setup; the console hummed to life with a quiet whir of its cooling fan, and the standard azure dashboard flared across the screen.
Sinking onto the carpet, Mina picked up the game case to give it another look.
The cover art was a masterclass in its very specific genre. It depicted a mature nun draped in a dark habit, her hands piously folded in prayer and her gaze lowered with humble modesty.
However, the cut of her vestments - a plunging neckline revealing an absurdly massive bust spilling out of the habit - left zero room for doubt as to which target demographic this title was engineered for.
Mina turned the case over in her hands, stared at the scantily clad nun, and unconsciously glanced down at her own tank top.
An eyebrow arched high. Instinctively cupping both hands beneath her modest breasts, she gave them a slight squeeze through the sheer fabric.
The contrast was downright ridiculous.
“Sure, why not,” she muttered with a dry grimace. “Some people get blessed with generous pixels even by a fictional god.”
Shrugging, she returned her gaze to the cover.
“I picked this game because the female character designs are gorgeous. Big tits... and the heroine shares my name,” she recited aloud with deadpan solemnity, like someone testifying before an audit board. Pausing for a beat, she nodded. “Valid enough reasons.”
Before slotting the disc into the drive, however, she decided to browse the web for a quick look. Setting the case aside, she hopped onto the plush couch, tucking one leg beneath her thigh while propping the other casually on the table edge.
The skimpy sweat shorts rode up immediately, baring a pale, silky expanse of thigh, while the loose tank top slipped off her left shoulder to reveal her collarbone.
Mina grabbed the tablet, where the main page of the game’s dedicated community forum was already open. She had only skimmed promotional trailers before, but now she wanted to dig up a few practical starter tips.
The first thread titles she encountered made her eyebrows shoot up. The atmosphere on the forum was lightyears away from praising the visuals. The headlines screamed pure anguish and unbridled fury:
“Hell Disguised as a Pretty UI”
“Locked Out of an Ending After 40 Hours, the Devs Are Pure Sadists”
“Do NOT Go in Blind, This System Will Ruin You”
“So those rumors about the hellish difficulty weren’t exaggerated after all,” Mina muttered, taking another sip of beer.
Her attention was snagged by a pinned thread at the very top, written in glaring all-caps:
“HAS ANYONE MANAGED TO KEEP THE HEROINE PURE UNTIL THE VERY END?!”
The replies underneath were a carnival of despair:
“Three endings. Three different routes. Not a single pure run. It’s straight-up impossible.”
“I got further than anyone I know, and that’s exactly why I’m warning you: save in separate slots every thirty minutes. This game stabs you in the back with a grin.”
“If anyone claims they beat this game without losing their virginity, post raw, unedited footage or you’re lying out of your ass.”
Mina knitted her brows, scrolling deeper, but no one on the board could provide proof of a confirmed run where the heroine hadn't been broken. Everyone met the exact same fate.
“Okay, but why would the game even force you into that?” Mina wondered aloud.
She found her answer several posts down, courtesy of a well-reasoned breakdown by a board veteran.
As it turned out, from the opening prologue, the game relied on a merciless mechanic: the protagonist began crippled by a staggering financial debt, branded with something called the Scarlet Brand.
The magical brand granted its master absolute power of coercion over her, while actively warping the heroine's own inhibitions and desires. Repayment deadlines were tuned to sadistic extremes, and any refusal to cater to the creditor’s “wishes” resulted in agonizing, debilitating penalties.
Mina froze her finger on the screen, her inner accountant shuddering in indignant disgust.
“They won’t even let you escape damn liabilities in a fantasy game...”
Subsequent comments broke down the character progression mechanics. Standard training, learning spells, and safe methods of empowering the heroine demanded astronomical sums of gold and time - luxuries players simply couldn't afford with loan payments breathing down their necks.
Meanwhile, adult mechanics - succumbing to lust, taking on “special requests,” and surrendering control over her own body - offered an instantaneous influx of massive skill points and cold, hard cash. The game was deliberately designed to funnel the player straight into corruption.
“So they engineer your bankruptcy first, then turn around with a smile to sell you the only viable workaround. Pure corporate classic,” she noted dryly, continuing to scroll.
Players had logged dozens of desperate workarounds. One tried sneaking out of the city - only to be executed by a lethal curse detonation from the brand. Another tried ignoring the plot altogether to endlessly grind gold through low-risk odd jobs - only to miss a deadline and have the heroine auctioned off at a slave market.
The most popular post belonged to a player who decided to cut the knot and simply assassinate his creditor. Mina read it with genuine interest; to her, the idea seemed entirely sensible.
Unfortunately, the comment section crushed that dream. The murdered loan shark was merely an authorized underling collecting on someone else's behalf. The true master of the debt and the seal was none other than the Third Prince. Given his untouchable political influence, the player was barred from ever reporting it to the heroine’s own church.
“Of course. A middleman,” Mina scoffed, nodding in weary recognition. “A disposable front man while the board of directors sits pretty behind closed doors.”
The discussion in the next thread veered sharply toward a character named Morgana. Players were gushing over her visual design, with one user noting:
“Sure, current Morgana is great, but her past incarnation... now that was true majesty. A completely different league in terms of looks.”
Mina slowed her scroll. According to the lore, Morgana was a pivotal figure affiliated with the formidable Church of the Lady of Souls and Death, revered six centuries prior as the world’s undisputed, legendary potion master.
She re-read the excerpt twice.
“Six hundred years? She looks pretty damn good for a corpse,” she murmured under her breath. Still, she committed the name to memory; the character clearly commanded immense respect across the forum.
The next lengthy post was another wail of agony. A player detailed what seemed like a flawless run - meticulous play, steering clear of shady quests, paying installments right on time, and keeping the heroine untouched all the way into the mid-game. And then he crossed paths with the Church of the Lord of Steel and Inventions.
“I thought I finally had it! A pristine run! How in the fresh hell did I end up with a SECOND BRAND?!” the enraged user vented.
The post revealed that the heroine had been slapped with an Iron Stigma, subjugating her to the unyielding whim of another powerful woman. Worse, as a built-in punishment, the stigma altered the character’s pain reception - any physical agony triggered a searing, masochistic jolt of pleasure, crippling her ability to fight back in standard combat.
Mina skimmed hundreds of comments beneath the complaint. Amid the sea of salt, she fished out one surprisingly specific tip from a data miner. The user insisted with dead seriousness:
“If you want any hope of surviving the capital early on, during your first conversation with Liliane, pick the dialogue option: ‘Mother Isolde, brought me here.’ Trust me, you’ll thank me later!”
Mina didn't deliberate - she snapped a screenshot on her tablet so the tip wouldn't get lost.
Finally, she stumbled into a massive flamewar surrounding Princess Charlotte. The original poster dragged the royal through the dirt, calling her a spoiled, insolent brat and praying someone would strip her crown and put a mop in her hands:
“Let her clean up her own damn mess for once instead of dumping everything onto my character and treating everyone like garbage!”
The replies were violently split - some echoed the OP’s fury, while others defended the princess on account of her ethereal beauty and sadistic streak...
Mina smirked, setting down her beer. The princess sounded like a first-rate bitch, which only piqued her curiosity further.
“All right. That’s enough theory to get rolling,” she decided.
Flipping the tablet face down on the table, she slipped off the sofa, cracked open the plastic case, and eased out the glossy disc. She fed it into the console’s slot. The unit hummed softly as it swallowed the disc, followed by the quiet chatter of the optical drive spinning up.
Slipping on a pair of bulky wireless headphones, Mina bumped the volume up a couple of notches with the remote and sank back into the plush cushions of the couch. Pulling her shorts higher, she nestled into a comfortable sprawl and gripped the wireless controller.
The developer’s splash screen flashed, followed by the mandatory mature content warning, before the cinematic opening finally rolled.
The atmosphere immediately took on a heavy, oppressive gloom. The camera panned languidly through the cavernous, monumental interior of a gothic cathedral, illuminated only by the feeble guttering of dying candles. Through the headphones echoed the deep, solemn toll of a distant bell.
Mina took another hefty swig of beer, sinking deeper into the sofa.
And then, a silhouette stepped into frame.
The woman lingered in the shadow of a colossal stone pillar, her back turned to the viewer as the camera glided closer. She wore dark liturgical vestments, but the fabric was molded so mercilessly tight to her form that it shamelessly flaunted every curve of her hips and buttocks. As she slowly pivoted, a gaping plunge at her chest unveiled a heavy, swaying bust struggling to remain contained within the sheer material.
“Damn. Those really are huge.”
Mina smiled in genuine appreciation, waiting for the scene to progress.
Suddenly, the animation ground to a crawl. The woman on the screen turned her head fully, staring directly into the camera lens. Her gaze wasn’t drifting across the cathedral hall - her eyes were locked onto one singular, precise point.
Right at Mina’s face.
Mina frowned. She tilted her head slightly to the right - and the character’s pupils tracked the motion without missing a beat.
The smirk vanished from Mina's lips, replaced by a creeping chill of unease.
“What the...?” slipped from her lips.
In that exact second, the cathedral bell tolled again.
BONG.
The concussion was so deafening Mina winced in pain. Ripping the headphones off, she hurled them onto the cushions.
Yet the reverberation didn't fade.
Somehow, the sound hadn't come from the headphones - and, weirder still, it wasn't coming from the television speakers either. Another cavernous toll resounded squarely inside her living room, as though a hundred-ton bronze bell were dangling directly from her plaster ceiling.
BONG.
The shockwave rattled the furniture. The beer can on the coffee table shuddered, spilling cold foam over the wood to drip onto the rug. Mina’s heart spiked into an erratic frenzy as primal, animal panic seized her.
She grabbed the remote and mashed the red power button.
The visual of the dark cathedral snapped to black for a fraction of a second - only to flare back to life in a blinding, blood-red glare. Burning at the center of the display was an intricate geometric sigil resembling a crown entangled in thorns and heavy iron chains.
Mina hammered the power button again with everything she had, the plastic groaning under her thumb.
“Turn off, damn it!”
Instead, the sigil erupted with light.
Luminous, crimson tendrils lanced out of the screen, spilling across the floor. With an acrid hiss of scorching wood, they raced along the floorboards beneath the coffee table, slithering straight toward her bare feet.
Mina yanked her legs back, scrambling to flee as the controller tumbled from her lap, cracking loudly against the floor.
Then, in the space between the sofa and the blazing screen, a voice echoed.
Low, feminine, impossibly melodious, and saturated with incomprehensible, ancient authority, it resonated so close it felt as if an unseen entity were leaning directly over her face:
“Mina.”
The girl parted her lips to scream in terror, but no sound could pass her throat.
The crimson lines snapped shut in a flawless circle around the couch.
BONG.
The fourth toll tore reality to shreds. The walls of her apartment, the ceiling, the tang of spilled beer, and the warm lamp light collapsed into a blinding, crimson abyss.