You slump against the thin mattress in your cramped one-room rental in Mumbai's Dharavi, the air thick with the smell of street-side frying oil seeping through the cracked window and the faint mildew that never quite leaves the walls. The ceiling fan creaks overhead, pushing around warm, humid air that does nothing to ease the sweat clinging to your shirt after another twelve-hour shift at the call center. Your phone screen glows weakly in the dim orange light of the single bulb—another reminder that rent is due in three days and your bank balance sits at a pathetic ₹3,000 after a month of grinding.
A random notification pings. You squint at the bizarre message that has somehow slipped past your spam filter:
"Detection shows the host is broke, earning only ₹3,000 a month. You work hard, but it's not even as good as picking up garbage. Would you like to activate the system and start your comeback now? Pay with 3 smiley faces to get started."
You let out a tired, bitter chuckle, the sound dry in your throat. Who falls for this garbage? Some scammer in Nigeria or a bored teenager, probably. Yet your thumb hovers, exhaustion dulling your better judgment, and before you can stop yourself you type 😊😊😊 and hit send.
The room goes perfectly still.
Then a clear, genderless voice speaks directly inside your skull, calm and authoritative, like it's been waiting years for this moment:
"Congratulations, Host Arjun Mehta. You have successfully bound to the Comeback System. You will receive ₹10,000 daily into your registered bank account. As the system upgrades, your earnings will increase exponentially. Additionally, this system will comprehensively enhance your physical and mental attributes—including appearance, physique, strength, speed, endurance, and psychological resilience. Considering your current circumstances, the system has initiated a rebirth protocol. You will return to the eve of your university admission."
The words haven't fully settled when the world tilts. The fan's lazy hum distorts into a low drone, the walls ripple like heat haze over asphalt, and the smell of frying oil twists into something metallic. Your vision tunnels, darkness rushing in from the edges, your heart pounding hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
Then—nothing.
When sensation returns, cool air brushes your skin. You blink awake to the familiar creak of a wooden bunk bed and the faint scent of old wood polish mixed with cheap detergent. Sunlight filters through thin cotton curtains, painting stripes across the hostel room you haven't seen in years. Your fingers close around a lighter phone—Oppo Reno7 instead of the battered Reno11 you'd been using. The lock screen reads: December 2, 20XX—exactly one day after freshman orientation at IIT Bombay.
Your three roommates are still asleep, their breathing soft and steady in the quiet morning. You sit up slowly, the thin hostel mattress springs squeaking under you. Your body feels… lighter. Shoulders less hunched, lungs pulling in air more easily. When you catch your reflection in the small mirror by the door, the tired, hollow-cheeked twenty-five-year-old is gone. In his place is nineteen-year-old Arjun again—hair thick and dark, skin clearer, eyes sharp with something new.
The voice returns, quieter now, almost amused:
"Welcome back, Host. Your daily reward has been deposited. Spend it wisely."
You exhale, a slow, disbelieving laugh escaping your lips as the Mumbai morning traffic begins its distant roar outside the window.
This time, everything will be different
You slip out of the bunk quietly, barefoot on the cool tiled floor of the hostel corridor, the early morning silence broken only by distant birds and the faint snore from one of your roommates. The shared bathroom is just down the hall—familiar, grimy in that perpetual bachelor way, with flickering fluorescent light and the lingering scent of cheap soap, damp towels, and masculine musk.
You push the door shut behind you, the click echoing softly. The air is warmer here, thick with residual steam from someone's late-night shower. And then you see them: the walls plastered with glossy printouts and magazine cutouts your roommates pinned up last semester—dozens of MILF pornstars in all their explicit glory. Sunny Leone stares down from one corner, hips cocked, her massive tits spilling forward, dark nipples hard and glistening with oil. Priyanka Chopra look-alikes in lewd poses surround her—thick, juicy asses spread wide, plump pink pussies dripping with arousal, labia swollen and slick, beads of moisture trailing down inner thighs like invitations. The images are shameless, high-resolution, every curve and fold captured in vivid detail: heavy breasts heaving, hips flared, cunts glistening under studio lights as if begging to be filled.
Your pulse quickens. Heat pools low in your belly.
You step to the cracked mirror above the sink. The face looking back is yours, but transformed—skin smooth and fair, jaw sharp, eyes bright with a confidence you haven't felt in years. No dark circles, no defeated slump. Just raw, youthful handsomeness. A slow smile spreads across your lips. This is you. The real you—before life in Mumbai ground you down, before call-center shifts and endless rejection. The system didn't just give you money. It gave you back yourself.
Your gaze drops lower. Curiosity and something hotter drive your hands to the waistband of your loose hostel shorts. You tug them down, letting them pool at your ankles. Your cock springs free—thicker, longer than you remember, heavy even while soft, veins already prominent along the shaft. You wrap your fingers around it, the skin hot and velvet-smooth under your palm. A few slow strokes and it swells eagerly, thickening further, the head flushing deep pink, a bead of precum already pearling at the slit.
Fuck.
You lean one hand against the cool porcelain sink, the other tightening around your shaft. Your eyes flick back to the walls—Sunny's spread thighs, another starlet on all fours, ass high, pussy lips parted and dripping. You imagine them real: the wet heat of those cunts, the weight of those heavy tits in your hands, the way they'd moan your name.
Your strokes quicken—firm, rhythmic pulls from base to crown, thumb swirling over the sensitive head on every upstroke. The slick sound of skin on skin fills the small room, mingling with your ragged breathing. Your balls draw up tight, pleasure coiling hot and urgent in your spine. The scent of your own arousal mixes with the steamy air—musky, masculine, intoxicating.
Minutes pass. Your forearm burns, fingers starting to go numb from the relentless pumping, but the edge you're chasing never quite arrives. Your cock throbs angrily in your grip—fully erect now, impossibly hard, veins bulging, precum leaking in steady drops that spatter the floor—but release stays just out of reach. You growl low in frustration, hips bucking into your fist, imagining burying yourself balls-deep in those glistening pink folds on the wall.
Nothing. No climax. Just endless, building pleasure that plateaus higher and higher without breaking.
You slow your strokes, chest heaving, sweat beading on your forehead. A laugh—half disbelieving, half triumphant—escapes you.
Endurance. The system gave you monstrous stamina.
This isn't a dream.
And with ten thousand rupees already in your account, a perfect body, and a cock that refuses to quit…
You're only getting started.