It was early morning when the calm neighborhood peace shattered.
"YOU FUCKING SON OF A CAMPING BITCH—GO FUCK AND KILL YOURSELF!!!"
The voice was loud enough to rattle the windows.
People on the street paused mid-step, staring at the modest two-story house like it was a crime scene. Inside, the source of the chaos revealed itself: a young man, mid-twenties, disheveled hair, eyes red with rage and exhaustion, sat hunched over a gaming rig glowing with RGB.
Victor Oseven.
He leaned back in his chair, hands off the keyboard, eyes blank.
"...What time is it?"
He fished out his phone and squinted at the screen.
> 9:36 AM.
"...Motherfuck, it was 12:00 like... an hour ago..."
His brain clearly wasn't functioning. Time had lost all meaning. So had dignity.
Cut to a few minutes later—Victor trudging along the sidewalk like a dead man walking. He looked like a zombie straight out of a B-tier horror movie. Dark circles under his eyes, hair like he'd just been electrocuted, muttering to himself.
"Ahhh, I'm beat. Lost seven games in a row. Always the damn campers. Coward-ass, corner-humping, bush-licking sons of bitches…"
He glanced at the reader. Yes, you.
"Oh hey, readers. What's up? Name's Victor Oseven—yeah, I know you already know, and yes, I'm talking to you. Anyway, I'm on a holy pilgrimage to find the most sacred of all life elixirs—caffeine."
He rubbed his temples and continued his rant like a podcast nobody asked for.
"If there's one thing I hate in this world—it's campers. And cats with no tails. And waking up without caffeine. Oh—and the ultimate ragebait: ISEKAI. God, I don't even know why I hate it so much. Maybe it's genetic. Like generational trauma but with more plot armor."
He crossed the road, still rambling.
"Like, fuck you mean—you get hit by a truck and wake up in another world? That's not how physics or reincarnation works, man."
Then—fate responded.
A deafening honk split the air.
Victor turned his head, and in the reflection of his dilated pupils was a massive red truck barreling straight toward him.
"MOTHERF—…wait, is that Optimus Pr—"
WHAM.
The truck hit him like a divine freight train of irony, sending him ragdolling through the air like a broken puppet. He hit the pavement, bounced once, then everything went black.
His final thought before unconsciousness?
I swear to God, if I wake up in a fantasy world… I'm suing someone.