The glass doors hissed shut behind him with a smooth mechanical sigh, sealing the world out.
Ren Yakovlev stepped into the quiet sanctuary of his penthouse and immediately exhaled.
The apartment was high above the industrial sprawl of Neo Kyoto, perched just under the arcology's upper ring—a rare zone where sunlight could still touch the windows, even if filtered through three layers of UV shielding and synthetic haze-clearing tech. From this height, the city below looked like a fossilized circuit board: rows of lights, gray towers, blinking advertisements, and streams of people wearing gas masks like cattle in a pressurized maze.
But here—up here—it was silent. Clean.
He slipped off his jacket, exposing a fitted black shirt that clung to his lean frame. The apartment's AI, a standard corporate assistant, chirped a greeting.
"Welcome back, Yakovlev-sama. Would you like tea, a protein recovery meal, or to review your post-match analytics?"
"None," he muttered, tossing the jacket over a chair. "Just… dim lights."
The smart windows darkened slightly, muting the sharp gleam of neon signs outside.
Ren removed the neural relay patch from the back of his neck and rubbed the skin there. The tournament had been a success—he had crushed every opponent, set a world record, done his interviews. By all metrics, he was a king. A champion. A god of the pro VR scene.
But gods weren't supposed to feel like they were suffocating every time someone looked at them too long.
He walked to the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Without the han'nya mask and visor, Ren's face looked… normal. Not ordinary, exactly—he was sharp-featured, pale-skinned, with a lean but symmetrical face. His eyes, ocean-blue and faintly luminescent due to minor bio-enhancement, still had the quiet intensity that cameras loved.
But without the mask, he wasn't Absolute Sin. He was just… Ren.
The bathroom light flickered as he leaned forward and sighed.
He splashed cold water on his face and let the chill numb the creeping unease in his chest. It didn't help much. It never did.
The penthouse was quiet—always was.
Ren liked it that way. He had everything he needed: automated chef systems, the latest neuro-interface VR rig, a gym, a music station, and a private data wall where he could review builds, strategies, and incoming sponsor offers.
His fridge stocked real food—imported, sealed, expensive. No processed nutrient cubes or plast-protein paste like what 90% of Neo Japan lived on. He had clean water. Air purifiers. Soundproof walls. An actual glass window, not a digital screen pretending to be one.
By every standard metric, Ren had won the system.
And yet, when he sat down on his couch and stared at the city lights below, all he could feel was... a deep, hollow ache.
His DMs were filled with messages: fans, sponsors, clickbait journalists, clout-chasers. Even his burner accounts had been sniffed out by algorithm trackers.
Everyone wanted to talk to Absolute Sin.
No one wanted to talk to Ren.
He ordered tea. The real kind—genmaicha imported from a Tokyo arcology that still had natural tea farms inside its dome. It brewed with a faint hiss and filled the room with a warmth he didn't quite feel.
His screen pinged. A message from one of his sponsors: "Amazing work today, Sin-sama! Can we schedule an AMA livestream this weekend? We'll send you a script to read off. Casual, but 'in-character,' you know the drill!"
He closed the message without replying.
He wasn't a performer. Not really. But the industry had decided that he was the cool and mysterious legend. The one who never smiled, never talked out of turn, who always crushed his opponents with surgical silence and then disappeared without fanfare.
That image sold merch. That image pulled numbers. So that's the image he gave them.
Later that night, he went out for groceries.
He could've had them delivered, but he needed air. Or whatever passed for air down in Neo Kyoto's outer districts.
He put on a mask—not the han'nya mask, just a sleek respirator with black trim. Standard issue. His eyes were uncovered. Most people wouldn't recognize him.
But as he stepped into the polished halls of the upper-market dome district, people did glance his way. Because even without the mask, Ren was striking. Tall. Elegant posture. That soft but magnetic intensity in his gaze. He didn't smile, but he didn't scowl either. Just... unreadable.
He grabbed a few fresh items from the luxury store—an egg carton, a small rice bundle, a sealed pack of lab-grown salmon—and moved to the self-checkout.
"Excuse me..."
A girl's voice. Soft. Hesitant.
Ren turned, mildly confused.
She was pretty. Bright hair, custom dye. Probably a college student or a high-end secretary, given her ID lanyard. Wearing a real wool coat, not synthetic, which already marked her as upper-class.
"I'm sorry," she said, blushing slightly. "You just… You look really familiar. Are you… a streamer?"
Ren blinked once. Then twice.
She wasn't wrong. His face—without the mask—had been doxxed before. Not officially, but some fan had guessed close. He'd had to pay a takedown team to keep it buried.
"I'm not," he said quietly.
"You sure? You really have that... pro-gamer vibe," she said with a soft laugh.
Ren shifted slightly, his brain already sounding the alarm bells. Social situation. Unexpected engagement. Flight not available. Engage minimal polite protocol.
"I just work in software."
"Ooh," she said, tucking hair behind her ear. "That explains the eyes. Bio-upgrades?"
"A bit," he said.
A pause.
She stepped a little closer.
"Well, if you ever want to show someone the view from your penthouse," she said with a teasing smile, "here's my QR."
She held out her wrist, a glimmering link code flashing in soft blue.
Ren stared at it like it was a bomb.
"…Thanks," he said, and walked away.
He got back to his apartment twenty minutes later and collapsed onto his couch.
His tea had gone cold.
"Show someone the view," he repeated under his breath.
He covered his face with both hands.
"…Why did I go outside?"
Outside his windows, the arcology dome buzzed with artificial twilight. Below him, the streets of Neo Kyoto stretched in neat layers of pollution-filtered sectors: inner cores with green lighting and sleek transport trams, outer rings where dust-choked alleys smelled of mold and burnt plastic.
Neo Japan in 2138 was a country of layers. Not metaphorically. Literally.
Each arcology functioned as a sealed city-state, self-contained and ruled by megacorporations. Below the dome, you had the corporate-tier districts, then citizen-tier housing, then the outer slums, where the poor wore gas masks that didn't always work and prayed they wouldn't catch a flesh-dissolving cough.
You were born into your tier. You didn't leave it.
Unless, of course, you were like Ren.
A god in the only world that mattered anymore: the virtual one.
He opened a private file. His YGGDRASIL prep folder.
Dozens of spreadsheets. Race combos. Class synergies. Metagame theories. Optimal item paths. Alignment interactions. Experimental paladin builds.
He scrolled through them, the cold order of numbers giving him a sense of control.
Then he paused.
There was a subfolder labeled "Fun Builds."
He clicked it.
Inside: A celestial bard with a ridiculous charm stat. A slime mage who morphed into weapons. A dragon tailor who made battle lingerie for his summons. A skeleton overlord that looks like the demon lord in the classic hero story.
He stared at them.
Then closed the folder.
"…Fun doesn't pay for this apartment," he muttered.
He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.
He loved games.
He really did.
They were the only place he ever felt free.
But even in there, he couldn't let go. Couldn't just be some weirdo with a slime fetish or a talking skeleton, even though the Necromancer build would be cool, but it ain't strong.
He had to be Absolute Sin.
Because that name pulled in millions. That name sold gear collabs, protein drinks, and even his own in-game cosmetic pack: black flame armor and a glowing silver blade.
That name paid for the clean air, the real food, the privacy.
That name kept the world from swallowing him alive.
But sometimes… he hated that name.
His comm pinged again.
It was Touch Me.
[Touch Me]: Just finished updating my build spreadsheet. You wanna brainstorm builds tonight?
Ren hovered over the reply field for a second.
Then typed:
[Sin]: Yeah. Let's do it.
[Sin]: I need a break from being myself.