What kind of monster are you— the one who looks but never sees?
This world is not a distant dream,
it's your own nightmare's cruel disease.
Do you think you're clean, untouched, a hero standing far apart?
Or do you feed on lust and pain, devouring broken hearts?
The monster who trades in flesh, like currency bought and sold,
who wears a plastic, hollow smile, and barters what's bought and old.
A body—human, android— just another product to consume,
in a world where shadows thrive, and morality meets its doom.
Welcome to your world— where desire has lost its mind,
where slaves in synthetic skin are trapped and tightly confined.
Trafficked lives, a daily scene, and no one dares to care,
because you, too, are complicit— in this nightmare we all share.
So ask yourself, before you sleep— what kind of monster lies in you?
The world is watching, waiting, for monsters just like you.
***
"She burned dinner again, Pondaru. I told her not to use the fish grill. Who the hell deep-fries tofu in a fish grill!?"
My dad's voice crackled over the phone, a mix of irritation and helplessness.
I closed my eyes and leaned back into the cab seat, head thudding gently against the vinyl. The driver said nothing. Just city lights flickering past in streaks of gold and smog.
"I'm on my way home," I said softly. "I'll fix it."
I always did.
They relied on me. Not like parents should rely on a child—but like they'd both silently agreed long ago:
I was the one who kept things running.
The peacemaker. The planner. The grown-up in a house full of grown-ups who never quite grew up.
They fought, forgot things, set off smoke alarms.
He cooked, cleaned, mediated, and still somehow got awards at school and stood in photos with paper certificates that didn't mean much anymore.
My name popped up on the cab's digital profile: Pondaru Yamada.
The driver looked at it twice, then up at me in the rearview mirror.
"Pondaru, huh?" he said with a smirk. "That's a new one."
I smiled politely. I was used to it.
Most people just called me "Pon."
Not because they were close.
But because they couldn't believe anyone would actually be named Pondaru.
It sounded made-up. Silly. Like a mascot.
Even my friends poked fun at it, calling me Pandaru like I was some cartoon panda with a backpack full of homework and unpaid bills.
But I never corrected them. Because honestly? It did sound silly. Just like my mom.But I respected it. She gave it to me—Even if she couldn't make a meal without setting something on fire.
I stared out the window as the taxi crossed a bridge slick with rain. The city stretched out beneath me, lights shimmering like fireflies caught in the dark. Trees lined the riverbank, their leaves heavy with rain, rustling softly in the breeze. The smell of wet earth drifted through the cracked window.
I wasn't taking the bus tonight.
Not with how my chest felt—tight, electric. Like something terrible was about to happen if I didn't get there fast. "Just a little longer," I whispered to no one.
"I'm coming home."
It was supposed to be just another ride. Nothing special.
Lights dimmed low outside, the hum of the engine beneath me, music barely audible through the worn speakers. Just me and the road ahead—quiet, empty, a night stretched thin with nothing but the dark to keep me company.
But quiet never meant peace. Not for me.
My phone buzzed again. Another missed call from Dad.
Probably yelling about the smoke alarm by now.
And Mom? Still pretending she didn't do anything wrong—just waving the towel at the ceiling like that would make the blackened tofu and melted fish grill vanish.
I closed my eyes.
I wasn't supposed to be the one holding this family together.
But somehow, I always was.
When they forgot bills. When they lost things.
When they needed dinner fixed or a broken thing translated into something whole.
They didn't lean on each other. They leaned on me.
They all thought I was fine.
My parents, my teachers, the other kids who smiled at me in the halls.
To them, I was the boy who fit in—the familiar face, the polite nod, the one who always did what was expected. Never late. Never loud. Never a problem.
But beneath all those smiles, beneath the good grades and the "yes sirs,"
it took a toll.
Carrying all that.
The peacekeeping. The pretending.
Being the one everyone relied on without asking if I ever wanted to be that person.
Still...
I did it anyway.
Because if I stopped, if I let go—
everything might fall apart.
And I didn't want to be the reason for that.
Not because I wanted to.
But because someone had to.
When Mom cried over burned rice or stared at a pot that had already boiled over…
When Dad slammed doors and muttered things he'd apologize for the next day…
It was me who stepped in.
The calm one. The go-between.
The kid who acted like he had it all figured out—because no one else could afford to fall apart.
But the truth is… I was just a boy.
I wanted to be a kid.
Just once.
To sit in the hallway and cry when things got bad, or hide under my covers and admit I didn't know what to do.
But that wasn't my role.
Wasn't my purpose.
I had no life outside work and managing my family.
No time to rebel. No time to mess up.
No chance to be careless or reckless—no chance to do lewd things like everyone joked about at school.
I was always the responsible one, the fixer, the invisible kid holding everything together.
Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to just let go.
But there was no space for that.
Not for me.
I was supposed to be strong.
The one who made things better, even when I was barely holding myself together.
And still… I knew they loved me.
Mom would bring me tea we couldn't afford, just because she said I looked tired.
Dad fixed my bike before work, even when we weren't speaking.
And my little sister—she was the only one who really saw me.
One night when I was sitting at my desk in my room—that too-clean-for-a-teenager room— bills spread out like a bad joke in front of me—numbers I barely understood, deadlines I couldn't miss. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving.
That's when I heard it.
Soft footsteps, hesitant but steady.
My little sister appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and wet, her pajamas rumpled.
"I had a nightmare," she whispered.
Without saying another word, she walked over and sat beside me.
I didn't even realize I was holding my breath.
She reached out and grabbed my hand.
"Stop," she said quietly.
"Just for a little while."
I wanted to argue, to tell her there was no time, no space for breaks—but she squeezed my hand like she meant it. Like she knew I was losing my mind.
I shut the bills, pushed them aside.
My bed sat just behind the desk, right in the middle of the room. I swung my legs around and climbed in, the mattress sighing under me.
"What was it about this time?" I asked, sounding more like a therapist than someone who probably needed one more than anyone else that night.
But she didn't say anything.
She just stood up, and without another word, climbed into my bed—right beside me.
She was always quiet, never the type to make noise or fuss. But sometimes, she was like me—carrying the weight of the world in silence.
I reached over her and pulled the string of the lamp, bathing the room in soft light.
"Look," I said, pointing to the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. I always did this, and she always looked pleased to see them.
She didn't care about the bills or the money. She cared about our family's mental—the happiness we all pretended to have. Maybe even more than I did.
She once said—sleeping next to me—was her way of saying thanks.
Thanks for taking care of us.
But who was she trying to fool, huh?
Like she didn't carry her own weight too.
I don't know what I'd do if she wasn't here.
I loved my little sister dearly, and I can't imagine a world without being her older brother.
I began to close my eyes.
"Pondaru."
"Yes?"
She whispered in the dark, "You were gone. I had to deal with Mom's mess, alone."
No fuss, no tears. Just quiet fact.
Hmm. So that was the nightmare.
I squeezed her hand gently.
"Don't worry," I told her softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
She hugged me tightly, like I was the only safe thing in the world.
I started humming one of the old songs our parents used to sing when we were little—the kind they'd sing late at night to calm us down, when everything felt too big and scary. I don't know why, but singing it always made me feel like I was holding onto something real, something unbroken.
Maybe that's why my voice sounded clearer then, softer but steady. It was a piece of the past I could still reach, a thread back to when life wasn't so heavy.
We used to sing it together all the time—me, her, and Mom and Dad—sometimes as a lullaby, sometimes just to remind each other we were still here, still fighting.
That night, her grip tightened even more, like letting go would mean losing everything we had left.
Hahaha, silly girl.
I closed my eyes, feeling the tight knot in my chest loosen just a little as the steady rise and fall of her breathing settled against me. Her breath was warm on my skin, and I felt the faintest touch of drool soaking through my shirt. Ewww.
But despite it all, there was a fragile comfort in that quiet, imperfect moment.
Then—
the screech of tires, sharp and sudden—cut through the silence. The world jolted violently as the car swerved hard, metal scraping, glass cracking.
My heart slammed against my ribs, yanking me back to a nightmare I never saw coming.
Headlights blazed into the taxi's dark interior. Too close. Too fast.
"Hey! Watch out!" My voice cracked, sharp and desperate.
But it was too late. Inside the cab lit up like a stage—the world jerked violently with the sound of shrieking metal.
CRRNNNCH!
The world slammed sideways.
Something yanked me hard.The seatbelt—
THWUMP!It caught me across the chest like a steel whip.
And then—
CRACK.
Something inside me snapped.
I couldn't breathe—not right.It was like fire lit up under my skin, and it didn't stop.
"Grrrraaah!"
A sound tore out of me—more animal than voice—and then the belt tore loose, and I was thrown into the door.
SHHH-CRACK!
Glass exploded—tiny shards drifting in the air like deadly snowflakes.
The driver's face was a mess of blood and glass, his eyes wild and pleading.
"Help," he said. Just one word.
But what was I supposed to do?
Pain flared through my ribs—sharp, relentless—each breath a struggle.
My legs wouldn't respond.
They were pinned beneath the seat, crushed by the force that shoved me back hard.
I was trapped.
Helpless.
Frozen in the wreckage.
Every breath tore at my ribs, every movement felt impossible. But somehow, through the haze, But still, I reached out.
I grabbed the driver's hand—cold, trembling—and held it tight.
This was what I always did at home. When things fell apart, I was the one who comforted, who held on when everyone else let go.
"Paramedics will probably be here soon," I said, trying to sound confident even though everything hurt. I glanced out the window, searching for anyone coming to help us. Then I remembered my phone.
Still holding his hand, I fumbled to unlock it and dialed the ambulance.
"Just hold on a little longer—" His hand went limp in mine.
A cold weight settled in my chest. I knew something was wrong.
Before I could even think what to do next, my stomach twisted violently, and I threw up thick, bitter bile mixed with dark, sticky blood—choking on my own fear and the metallic taste flooding my mouth.
The phone clicked—answered.
A calm voice came through, asking for our location, what happened.
I wanted to speak, to explain, but my throat felt tight and dry. My mouth was full of acid and blood.
I was still nauseous, still shaking—frozen in shock.
My head wobbled like it didn't belong to me, too heavy to hold upright.Everything tilted and swam.
I stared down at the driver's broken, bloody face—so still.
For the first time, I saw a real dead body up close.
And I couldn't look away.
Words caught in my chest.
I couldn't say a thing.
Then—footsteps. Sharp. Purposeful.
Not the panicked scramble of bystanders.
Black boots. Black gloves. No emblems No flashing lights.
Just shapes—sharp silhouettes moving through the blur.
They didn't shout. Didn't run.
Everything about them was quiet. Controlled.
I blinked, trying to focus. The world was grainy, like a screen going out of sync.
They ripped the door open without a word. One of them knelt beside me, shining something cold and blue into my eye, His face was… nothing. A mask, maybe? Or just shadow.
It was hard to tell.
"Conscious," he muttered. "Barely."
I tried to speak. "H-help… my… I think my ribs…" But I didn't get to finish.
Then hands—tight around my arms, they started pulling.
Hard.
My legs snagged on something inside the wreck—twisted metal, maybe the seat frame—but they didn't stop.
They yanked again.
Agony exploded in my spine.
A sound tore from my throat, raw and hoarse, as they ripped me free.
"Hhhnnngg!"
I felt something tear—maybe inside me. Maybe not. I couldn't tell.
But whoever it was, kept going— cold, focused— dragging me out of the crushed metal and onto the cold pavement.
They dropped me hard.
For a second, I gasped—just a shallow breath, sharp and ragged—
But before I could even catch it, they grabbed me again, yanking me forward.
My legs scraped along the ground, useless and burning.
My head lolled forward, heavy and out of control.
For a moment, I just leaned there—dizzy, sick, barely hanging on.
Then, with everything I had left, I forced myself to look up.
A van door was already opening. I saw the inside—dimly lit, clean, sterile. No red cross. No medical equipment I recognized.
"Wait," I croaked. "Where are you taking me?"
I was hoisted inside like dead weight onto a medical bed. The doors slammed shut behind me, muffling the world—and the faint, distant chirp of crickets outside.
Inside, they strapped something tight around my chest, pressed a needle into my arm—an IV, maybe. Cooling fluid pumped into my veins.
The burning dulled just enough. Everything still hurt. But… finally, I could rest.
I was tired—bone-deep tired—and glad to be somewhere that might help me feel better again.
"Test motor function," one of them said coldly to the other.
Another grabbed my hand. "Move your fingers."
I did, slowly.
"Legs."
I tried. Pain shot up my side, but nothing moved. My thighs refused to respond. My toes might as well have been part of the bed.
They nodded anyway.
"Paralyzed," the second one stated bluntly.
"Paralyzed…?" My voice cracked. My chest tightened. "No—no, I can't be paralyzed," I said, breath hitching.
"My family needs me." Tears blurred my vision. I couldn't feel my legs. Couldn't move. "Please," I begged, "can you call them? Please—just tell them I'm okay…"
But no one answered.
Just silence. And the hum of the van, already moving.
The van rattled softly beneath me. I couldn't feel my legs. I couldn't move. My vision blurred, edges darkening.
My eyes fluttered—
And then closed. But I could hear.
Voices. Two of them. Calm. Detached.
Clinical.
"Face is intact. Skin's unbroken—good symmetry. Pretty, actually," one said, like I wasn't even there.
"Hair's damaged."
One of them forced my eyelid open, holding my gaze like I was nothing more than a specimen. "Eye clarity: average. Chest structure: androgynous. Small frame overall."
I lay there frozen, drifting past in slow, soft pulses.
"Feet—size 23. Hands: soft. Fingernails need trimming."
"Genitals—small," one of them said, flat and unaffected, like reading a label.
Their voices were flat, emotionless—like they were cataloging an object, not a person.
The other chuckled. "Cute, though. Like the rest of him. Might work for specialty clients."
My stomach twisted.
A lump formed in my throat. I couldn't move. Couldn't even cover myself.
I was just lying there—broken, helpless—while they discussed my body like I was a doll on a shelf.
A pen scratched something down. I heard it. Every tick of ink.
Ranking me.
Piece by piece.
Like I wasn't human. Just… parts.
But more than that, I told myself I was being saved.
These had to be more advanced than a regular ambulance.
I still thought they might be doctors. Some private evac team. Just... cold. Unusual. Maybe corporate.
Then came the moment that shattered the illusion.
Without warning, they flipped me around—rough and swift.
I barely had time to register the movement before I was face down on the bed, every breath burning sharp and shallow. One of them leaned over me, fingers at my waistband.
But then the hand paused. Fingers spread slightly. They gripped the side of my hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh of my—
"Shlorp…"
My breath hitched.
My brain tried to justify it. Maybe this was protocol? But deep down, I knew.
That wasn't care.
That wasn't help.
That was a palm on my buttcheek, cold and possessive.
I froze. My heart kicked into overdrive. "S-stop," I breathed. "That's not—"
Fingers wrapped tightly around my wrists, pressing them down against the hard bed beneath me.
My body was already weak, broken, but I tried to squirm.
Anything to break free— but I couldn't even lift my head.
The weight of them held me still.
Not violently. Not with rage.
Just procedure.
I wasn't a person to them...
"Subject is viable," one of them said.
"No—let go—!"
I thrashed, but I was too weak. My body screamed, but nothing came out but choked whimpers.
Then the needle came.
Cold. Thick. Sharp.
Pressed hard into the muscle of my backside.
A harsh sting flared deep inside me.
I bit my lip, trying not to scream, but a shudder wracked my body.
The needle pricked deep into the muscle of my backside.
My eyes snapped open wide, panic flaring.
My eyebrows knitted together, muscles tensing as I struggled to look up.
Most of my face pressed against the cold, hard bed—my mouth muffled against the surface.
I fought to stay awake, but the darkness was already pulling me under.
Then, slowly, my face slackened, the fight draining away.
My body went still.
The world blurred further, edges melting away as a strange numbness seeped through my limbs.
The last thing I heard before darkness swallowed me whole was a whisper in a voice I'll never forget:
"Positive for the next stage."