Today was the day. The grand finale. The culmination of four years of relentless, soul-crushing grinding. I was finally done with college. No more classes, no more panic-inducing exams, no more last-minute assignments that made a mockery of my sleep schedule. For the first time in what felt like my entire life, I was free.
This called for a celebration.
I leaned back in my worn-out gaming chair, its protesting squeak a familiar companion. My eyes drifted to the digital clock glowing on my monitor: 7:00 PM, 7/11/2025. A quiet rumble from my stomach signaled its enthusiastic agreement. Food was in order. I could summon a lukewarm, greasy bag with a few taps on my phone, but that felt deeply anticlimactic for such a momentous occasion. No, tonight I would venture into the real world. As a computer science major who had spent the better part of a decade bathed in the ethereal blue light of screens, I figured it was time to touch some grass. Or, at the very least, some weed-strewn concrete.
My gaze swept over the battleground of my small apartment. Empty energy drink cans formed metallic towers on my desk, monuments to my caffeine dependency. Stacks of programming books created precarious skyscrapers on every available surface. My bed was buried under an avalanche of printed code and research papers, their margins filled with frantic scribbles that had made sense at three in the morning but now looked like alien hieroglyphics. The air was stale, circulated only by a desktop fan that wheezed with the persistence of an old man climbing stairs.
With a sigh of contentment, I pushed myself to my feet. I slipped my wallet into my back pocket, grabbed my phone and wireless earbuds, and stepped out into the evening.
The oppressive humidity of the July night clung to my skin, a stark, organic contrast to the sterile air-conditioning of my apartment. It felt real. The sun had just begun its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that no monitor could ever truly replicate. As I walked, the newly installed LED street lamps flickered to life, casting long, dancing shadows on the pavement.
My neighborhood was a portrait of transition, a chaotic patchwork of finished homes and the skeletal frames of houses yet to be completed. For months, the percussive hammering and high-pitched whine of power saws had been the unwelcome soundtrack to my thesis. Now, the relative silence felt sacred. The construction crews were gone, leaving only the lingering scent of sawdust and the promise of another cacophonous morning. But tomorrow wasn't my problem. Tomorrow, I could sleep until noon. Tomorrow, I could do anything or nothing at all. The thought was intoxicating.
I passed the local coffee shop where the owner, Sarah, knew my order by heart. Across the street, a group of teenagers had taken over the small park, their laughter carrying on the breeze. They were attempting some skateboard trick, filming each other on their phones in the modern ritual of documented friendship. I felt a brief pang of something not envy, but a recognition of a path not taken.
The orphanage hadn't exactly been conducive to forming lasting friendships. Kids came and went, some adopted, others aging out of the system like I had. The few bonds I'd forged were temporary by necessity, everyone too focused on their own survival to build anything lasting. College had been more of the same too busy juggling part-time jobs and a full-time course load to invest in the social connections other students seemed to form so effortlessly.
But that was fine. I'd learned early that the only person you could truly count on was yourself. Self-reliance had been my shield and my sword, getting me through eighteen years in the system and four years of college on scholarships and ramen. Now, with a degree in hand, I was ready to translate that self-reliance into a real career. Financial stability. A life that was about more than just surviving.
The familiar, welcoming glow of the 24/7 convenience store cut through the deepening twilight. It was a squat, rectangular building plastered with ads, but tonight, it represented my first act as a free man. A feast of cola and a family-sized bag of extra-salty potato chips awaited. It was junk food as rebellion, a monument to my victory.
I was about to cross the last intersection, my mind already savoring the crisp, sugary bliss, when a primal knot of dread tightened in my gut. I looked back over my shoulder.
The heavy bass of my favorite synth-wave track had been pounding in my earbuds since I left my apartment, a personal soundtrack that had cocooned me from the world. It was loud enough to drown out stress, deadlines, and, as it turned out, the approaching roar of an engine.
The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. Truck-kun. The legendary, tire-squealing harbinger of isekai protagonists, and he was right behind me.
Shit.
Time didn't just slow down, it stretched, pulling apart like corrupted data. In moments of mortal danger, the brain becomes a high-speed camera, capturing every detail with ruthless clarity. Fascinating, from an academic perspective. Less so when you're the subject of the experiment.
With a strange, detached calm, I noticed the truck's headlights were off. It was that treacherous, dusky hour when the world exists in shades of grey, making depth perception unreliable. Inside the cabin, the driver was slumped over the wheel, his head lolling against the vibrating window. He'd dozed off. Poor guy. Probably working two jobs to support his family. Life is a relentless meat grinder.
The chrome grille grew larger, a mechanical predator's smile reflecting my own distorted, bug-like image. The rational part of my mind, the part that debugged code, calculated the unforgiving physics of the situation. Mass times velocity equals momentum. I was badly outmatched.
Then, a final, unexpected sense of peace washed over me. Hey, at least no one will miss me.
The thought wasn't self-pitying, it was simply a fact. There were no grieving parents or distraught siblings. Just a perpetually grumpy orphanage director who would complain about the paperwork. The few acquaintances I'd made in college might hear about it months later and say, "Oh, him? Shame." My only legacy would be the student loan debt that would, presumably, die with me. Even in death, I'd be sticking it to the system. There was a certain poetic justice in that.
I watched the cold, unforgiving metal make contact. I braced for the symphony of snapping bone and tearing flesh.
But there was no pain. No crushing force. Just an all-consuming cold, and then… light. It wasn't a feeling of destruction, but of deconstruction. As if my entire being every memory, every line of code I'd ever written, every lonely night was being uninstalled. The transition was seamless, as simple and profound as a program terminating.
…
"This system is very sorry for its actions."