Main Character Profile
Name: Mark Spiel
Age: 25
Origin: Born and raised in Hawaii, moved to Las Vegas for college
Occupation: Freence animator, graduate student in Film & Animation
Dream: To create the first major American-style anime—mixing Western storytelling with Eastern animation techniques
Personality:
Creative and driven, but prone to overthinking
Chill on the outside, chaotic on the inside
Big imagination, slightly horny (okay, very)
Geeky passion for anime, especially long-running epics like One Piece
Loves food, hates cooking
Occasionally talks to himself (or to the AI now)
Sarcastic and self-aware—knows he’s in over his head but rolls with it
---
8:12 AM
Mark Spiel was not a morning person.
The sunlight poking through the blinds of his tiny Vegas apartment was not divine. It was rude. He groaned, rolled over, and buried his face in a pillow that smelled vaguely of sleep and regret.
He’d gone to bed at 3 a.m., naturally—caught in a rabbit hole of 90s anime fight scenes and half-baked storyboard thumbnails that now lived in a pile on his desk like the artistic version of dirty undry.
“Okay,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Today’s the day. The day I become a productive, self-actualized, breakfast-eating human.”
Silence. Then:
“You’re full of crap,” came the AI voice from his tablet. His digital assistant, Kimi, had evolved over the years into something between a co-writer and a judgmental anime girlfriend.
“You weren’t even supposed to have sass mode on,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“I reflect my user,” Kimi replied.
Mark flipped her off without looking, then dragged himself out of bed like a reluctant zombie. He shuffled to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at its contents like he was trying to will them into a hot meal.
A bag of wilting spinach. Half a bottle of Sriracha. A single leftover egg roll wrapped in foil like it was sacred.
“I really have to stop living like a post-apocalyptic anime side character,” he muttered.
---
9:47 AM
Two things got Mark moving: shame and caffeine.
After nuking the egg roll and chugging a cold brew like it was mana potion, he slipped on his hoodie (grey, slightly stained, emotionally comforting) and plopped in front of his animation rig. His desktop background? A massive colge of his favorite anime—One Piece front and center, of course.
He stared at the open project file for AetherBze: Chapter One, his “passion project-ssh-magnum opus” that had been in development for longer than most retionships.
Today’s goal: animate exactly 12 seconds of fight scene. Punches, camera pan, dramatic hair movement. Easy.
Mark cracked his knuckles. Focused. He could do this. He would do this.
He opened YouTube and immediately got distracted by a compition titled: “Top 10 Anime Betrayals That Still Hurt.”
“Okay but...research,” he reasoned.
---
11:02 AM
One betrayal video turned into three. Then a voice-over tutorial. Then an animation breakdown from Studio Trigger that left him spiraling into a creative existential crisis.
“I’ll never be this good,” he whispered to no one. “I peaked at the high school stick-figure fight animations. I’m a fraud.”
“Affirmations, Mark,” Kimi chirped from his tablet.
He sighed. “I am a talented artist. I am full of original ideas. I am not sexually attracted to my own character designs.”
Pause.
“That st one was a lie,” Kimi added.
Mark just grinned. “It’s not my fault Kaida looks lik
e she could kill me with her pinky. That’s just good design.”
1:17 PM
Mark was lying on the floor.
Not for drama—well, maybe a little for drama—but mostly because his back hurt from animating in a cheap chair that hated artists. He stared up at the ceiling fan, counting the rotations like it was going to give him life advice.
The animation had gone nowhere. He’d managed six seconds. One punch. Two smears. A blink.
And a five-minute loop of Kaida—his main character—smirking in that dangerous way that made him question things.
He groaned and covered his face with both hands.
“I swear to God, if I had a dolr for every time I’ve imagined Kaida stepping on me—”
“You’d be able to hire a real animator,” Kimi said from the corner of the room, her voice now projected from the tablet he’d tossed onto the bed earlier.
“You’re supposed to be a productivity assistant, not a roast bot.”
“You programmed me. You knew what you were doing.”
Mark rolled over and buried his face into the rug. It smelled like feet and dried ramen. Not ideal. Neither was the fact that he’d accidentally drawn Kaida’s cleavage slightly too detailed in the keyframe and had spent the st twenty minutes “tweaking” it.
He was not tweaking it anymore. He was simping.
“Okay. Okay, we’re taking a break.”
---
2:01 PM
The break was supposed to involve stretching and sunlight. Instead, it involved a very questionable click into his “research folder,” which was definitely not just research.
One minute he was scrolling through costume references, and the next, well—
There she was. A cospy model in a disturbingly accurate Kaida outfit, complete with glowing contact lenses, thigh-high boots, and just enough strategic leather to make him wish he hadn’t worn sweatpants today.
“God, I’m gonna die alone,” he muttered, biting his lip.
He sat back in his desk chair and let the spiral begin. His mind went pces. Wild, stupid, insanely vivid pces. Like Kaida leaning in close, whispering threats into his ear in a vilinous growl, one hand around his throat, the other on his—
Ping.
Doorbell.
Mark jumped so hard he nearly knocked over his tablet.
“Jesus—what the—who—”
No one ever visited. Ever. It was like sacred w. His Sundays were for sweat, shame, and solo suffering. He wasn’t mentally prepared for human interaction. Or pants.
He peeked through the peephole and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Standing there, holding a pstic takeout bag, was Nina.
His neighbor.
His hot, occasionally flirtatious, tattooed neighbor. She looked like she walked out of a comic book about sexy bartenders who could kill a man with a pool cue.
“Holy hell,” he whispered, spping his cheeks lightly like an anime character trying to reset his brain.
He opened the door, hoodie barely zipped, hair a disaster, pupils still probably dited from cospy-induced thirst.
“Hey!” Nina grinned. “Sorry to just drop in. You left this on your doorstep this morning.” She held up the bag. “Egg roll?”
Oh right. He’d taken it out while on a call and forgotten it. Morning him was truly the vilin of the story.
“Oh wow, you saved my lunch,” he ughed nervously, taking the bag. “I owe you, like... eternal gratitude. Or a coffee. Or an apology for what I probably look like right now.”
She tilted her head, smile coy. “You look fine. Very... artist in crisis. It’s a vibe.”
Mark wanted to melt.
Nina lingered for half a second longer than necessary. Her eyes dipped to his open ptop just behind him—on screen, a paused frame of Kaida in all her smirking, sword-wielding, dominatrix-glory.
Mark followed her gaze. Froze. Panicked. Smmed the ptop shut so hard he nearly gave himself carpal tunnel.
“So!” he blurted. “Thanks again for the egg roll!”
Nina raised an eyebrow but smirked. “Anytime, neighbor.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Mark shut the door and leaned against it, heart pounding like he’d just survived a boss fight.
“I am never leaving the house again,” he whispered.
“Want me to clear your browser history?” Kimi offered dryly.
“Just delete me.”
8:44 PM – Club Silo, Las Vegas
Mark knew what kind of night this would be the second he stepped inside and got hit with three things: the smell of overpriced perfume, bass strong enough to knock out his mors, and the regret of leaving his apartment in the first pce.
Kai—his cousin, occasional life coach, and permanent chaos gremlin—had pnned this. “Last Sunday before the grind, bro,” he’d said over ramen the night before. “You need to touch grass. Or neon. Or ass, preferably.”
Now Kai was God-knows-where on the dance floor, being swallowed by lights and limbs and ughter. And Mark?
Mark was holding a drink he didn’t remember ordering, awkwardly posted at the bar like a side character waiting for his cue. Button-up wrinkled, hair stubbornly doing its own thing, and stomach twisting with the kind of nerves he usually reserved for convention panels and dentist visits.
And then he saw her.
Miya.
Short bck skirt, red top knotted just below her ribs, eyeliner so sharp it could slice timelines. She moved like the club owed her rent—smooth, confident, electric. Her tattoos peeked out like secrets from under her sleeves, curling down her arms and into the unknown.
And she was looking right at him.
No. Through him.
Mark blinked, looked over his shoulder, then back.
She was still walking toward him.
“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath. “This is a setup. This is where the hot vilin distracts the nerd before stealing the ancient relic.”
But there was no relic. Just his awkward self, his drink, and a deeply compromising sketch of Kaida on his phone he really hoped wouldn’t come up.
She stopped beside him at the bar, one eyebrow raised.
“You always look this uncomfortable in public,” she asked, voice honey-smooth and entirely too amused, “or is that just your party face?”
Mark froze, then recovered with a sheepish half-smile. “This is my party face. The upgraded one. The default has more anxiety.”
Miya ughed. It was a real one. Head tilted slightly back, eyes glinting in the fshing light. “I like that. Self-aware awkwardness. Hot.”
He blinked. “Wait, that’s hot now?”
“Only when it comes with good hair and tragic artist vibes.”
“…Wow. Okay. You’re just gonna open with psychic violence like that?”
“You’re cute. And I’m very bored.”
Mark took a slow sip of his drink to stall the full internal meltdown happening in his head. His thoughts were a mess of She’s into you, stupid and Don’t mention anime. Don’t mention anime yet. Act cool for five minutes.
“Okay, okay,” he said, setting down the gss. “Let’s say I’m tragically artistic. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m just tragic,” Miya said, deadpan. “No artistry. Just vibes and a minor god complex.”
“Sounds healthy.”
“It’s a work in progress.”
---
9:05 PM
Ten minutes ter, they were seated at the edge of the club’s open-air balcony, hidden from most of the crowd. The Vegas skyline glittered like it had something to prove, and Miya was sipping from a drink Kai had generously provided before disappearing again.
She leaned on the railing, eyes half-lidded. “So what do you really do, tragic man?”
Mark hesitated. “Animation.”
“Ohhh. You draw hot girls and cry into ramen at 3am.”
He grinned. “Uncomfortably accurate.”
“Do you animate like... full-time?”
“Freence. Grad student. Technically employed but emotionally bankrupt.”
“God. That’s also hot.”
“Please stop saying that before I fall in love by accident.”
Miya tilted her head, smiling. “I’ll risk it. Show me something?”
He thumbed open his sketch folder, swiping past anything vaguely thirst-trappy, and showed her a recent piece—Kaida, his fire-eyed sword queen, mid-battle pose.
Miya whistled low. “Damn. She looks like she could ruin my whole life.”
“That’s kinda her thing.”
“And what about you?” she asked. “Do you draw self-inserts? Dream of her stepping on you or something?”
Mark choked. “I—uh—I mean—not technically—”
“Rex, artist boy. I’m not judging.”
His brain went full static. She handed his phone back with a teasing look.
“I like her,” Miya said. “She’s dangerous. You probably write her smarter than most people you meet.”
“I write her smarter than me.”
“And here I thought you were the tortured genius.”
“I’m the tortured idiot. Big difference.”
“You hide it well.”
He smiled. “You don’t hide anything.”
“Exactly,” Miya said, leaning in, “and that’s why I’m more dangerous than your animated sword girl.”
---
10:22 PM
He didn’t dance. Everyone who knew Mark knew that. But Miya’s fingers wrapped around his wrist and led him out anyway, and suddenly he was in the pulse of it, surrounded by light and heat and bodies.
She moved close. One arm around his neck, the other grazing his chest like she was checking if he was real.
“You tense,” she whispered, lips brushing his jaw.
“I haven’t danced since high school gym css,” he admitted.
“Then follow me.”
Her body pressed against his. The rhythm wasn’t fast, but it was filthy. Her hips rolled slow. Her hands wandered. Her smirk deepened.
Mark tried to focus on keeping it together.
Brain: “She’s into you. She’s really into you. This is not a drill.”
Body: “Stay cool.”
Soul: “Get her number and propose.”
“You okay?” Miya murmured, close enough that her breath tickled his ear.
“Barely,” he replied.
“Good.”
---
11:40 PM
They ended up at the quieter bar upstairs, tucked in a velvet booth with low lighting and way too much tension in the air.
Miya had kicked off her heels, sitting cross-legged with a drink in hand, her gaze locked on him like she was trying to memorize his blueprints.
“So,” she said casually, “do you usually flirt like a shy anime protagonist or is tonight special?”
Mark rubbed his neck. “I usually flirt with the idea of women. Not actual women.”
Miya smiled. “And yet, here we are. Me, real. You, charming. The night, young.”
“You’re relentless.”
“Only when the guy’s worth it.”
Her hand slid across the seat to his. Fingers lightly brushing. Testing. Teasing.
Mark swallowed hard. “I’m gonna be thinking about you for a long time after this.”
“Oh, you better,” Miya said. “I don’t flirt this good with just anyone.”
She leaned in, lips brushing his cheek but not kissing. “But if you py your cards right…”
He turned slightly, breath catching.
“Not yet,” she whispered, eyes locked with his. “Tension’s still cooking.”
“Sadist.”
“You love it.”
He absolutely did.
---
2:03 AM – Stripside, Las Vegas
Mark had no idea how the night turned out like this.
One second he was awkwardly swaying next to the hottest girl in the room, trying not to short-circuit when her hand grazed his chest. The next, she was dragging him out of the club, fingers ced with his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Now they were outside. Lights fshing. Horns bring. The night warm with that desert chill and a kind of heady, unreal heat between them.
He half-expected her to turn and say “Just kidding. You’ve been punk’d.”
But Miya just waved down a taxi, smirked, and said, “You staying nearby or am I making the call?”
Mark, somehow keeping his cool, replied, “I’ve got a room at the Luxor. Solo. Sad. Full of snacks and unfinished storyboards.”
Miya looked him up and down. “Perfect. Get in.”
---
2:11 AM
The cab ride started off normal. Miya kicked off her heels, lounging against him like they’d done this a hundred times. Mark tried to stay chill. Failed.
Because then her hand slid onto his thigh. Slowly. Casually.
And stayed there.
He coughed, looking straight ahead.
“You okay?” she asked, feigning innocence. Her fingers traced a slow circle on his jeans, just enough to fry his nervous system.
“I’m... great. Really. Totally not freaking out on the inside.”
Miya smirked, leaning in. Her lips brushed his ear. “I like making artists nervous.”
“I’m considering writing you into my next animation as a succubus.”
“Only if you animate my good side.”
“Do you have a bad side?”
“I am the bad side.”
Her hand slid just a little higher.
The cabbie cleared his throat in the front.
Mark blinked hard. “Sir, I’m gonna tip the hell out of you. Just so you know.”
---
2:30 AM
Mark fumbled with the keycard like an amateur.
Miya watched him, amused. “You shaking or are your hands just that eager?”
He finally got the door open, stepping into a quiet, semi-clean hotel room lit only by the blue glow of the city outside. His ptop sat abandoned on the desk, open to a paused frame of Kaida in mid-battle.
Miya noticed it. “She still watching you, huh?”
“I think she’s judging me.”
“Let her. You’re about to have a better night than she ever will.”
Then her lips were on his.
And for a moment, Mark forgot everything—his deadlines, his future, his fear. He was just a guy kissing a girl who felt like chaos wrapped in honey. Her hands slid under his shirt. His found the curve of her back.
Clothes fell away in stuttering pieces. Her top. His shirt. Her skirt, discarded like a memory. They kissed like the world was ending in the best way.
Miya pushed him back onto the bed. Straddled him. Smiled down like she owned the night.
And maybe she did.
“Still nervous?” she whispered, lips brushing his.
“Absolutely,” he breathed. “Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t pnning to.”
Their bodies found rhythm like a song he didn’t know he’d memorized. Skin met skin. Teeth grazed lips. Moans melted into the dark.
It wasn’t pornographic—it was cinematic. Soft light. Tension like static. Breathless ughter between gasps. Fingertips tracing forgotten scars.
He couldn’t stop thinking, I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life.
---
7:16 AM – Monday
Sunlight slipped through the bckout curtains like an uninvited guest. Mark stirred, groaning as his body reminded him that yes, that actually happened.
He blinked blearily. Next to him, Miya was curled under the bnket, one bare leg kicked out. Her hair a chaotic halo across the pillow.
She looked peaceful. Untouchable. Like a dream still halfway real.
Mark stared at the ceiling.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “You survived. You didn’t die of horniness. You may now proceed to overthink everything.”
He smiled a little. Not the sarcastic smirk he wore like armor—but the real one. The sleepy, holy-shit-that-was-good one.
His phone buzzed. A text from Kai.
> [Kai:] yo u alive? she was HOT. Don't tell me u didn’t chicken out??
Mark replied:
> [Mark:] i’m alive. also, i think i just leveled up.
------
---
---
7:45 AM – Hotel Room
Mark stretched under the sheets, limbs warm, heart full, brain still half-drenched in the afterglow of the night before. Miya was stirring beside him, hair a mess, bnket dangerously low, eyes just barely opening.
“Morning,” she mumbled, voice husky, sinful.
“Morning,” Mark replied, like he’d just won the lottery and didn’t want anyone to take the ticket away.
He leaned over, kissed her shoulder, and—BOOM.
The entire room jerked sideways.
The bed slid. The dresser toppled. The TV cracked against the wall.
Mark sat up, eyes wide. “What the—?”
Miya blinked. “...Was that—?”
Then the world exploded.
The windows rattled. The floor bucked. The walls groaned like they were about to fold in on themselves. Arms bred. Lights burst and showered sparks.
“EARTHQUAKE!” they screamed at the same time.
---
7:47 AM
Mark hit the floor in one chaotic tumble, limbs tangled in the bnket like a straitjacket. “THIS ISN’T HOW I WANTED TO DIE!”
Miya rolled off the bed, also very naked, clutching a pillow to her chest. “WHERE ARE MY PANTS?!”
“WHY DOES EVERYTHING FEEL LIKE A MOVIE?!”
A voice crackled through the hallway intercom:
“Magnitude 8.1—please evacuate calmly. Repeat, evacuate calmly—”
The building shook again. Screams echoed down the hallway. Somewhere, gss shattered.
Mark grabbed his jeans and yanked them on over mostly nothing. “WE ARE NOT DYING NAKED IN VEGAS!”
“My shoes—” Miya started.
“NO TIME FOR SHOES! WHERE’S MY LAPTOP?!”
His animator instincts kicked in like muscle memory. He dove for the desk, snatched the ptop, hugged it like a baby. Kaida’s paused frame stared back at him.
“I’M NOT LOSING YOU, TOO!”
Miya had grabbed a hotel robe and was frantically shoving her phone and wallet into it. “Are you seriously rescuing your anime girl right now?!”
“YES. SHE PAYS MY RENT.”
The floor rolled again. Mark grabbed her hand and yanked the door open.
---
7:52 AM
Screams. Arms. Blinking red lights.
People were sprinting in all directions—some in pajamas, some in towels, one guy in full cospy for some reason.
Mark and Miya ran barefoot down the hall, him carrying the ptop, her still holding a pillow like a shield.
“Elevator or stairs?!” she yelled.
“Stairs! I’m not dying in an elevator with my ass out!”
They barreled down the stairwell as aftershocks rippled through the building. The lights flickered. A pipe burst overhead, showering them with freezing water.
Miya shrieked. “Are we in a disaster movie?!”
“YES. AND I’M THE COMIC RELIEF!”
They hit the ground floor and shoved through the emergency exit into the blinding daylight of the Strip.
---
8:07 AM
They stumbled into the street—drenched, barefoot, barely dressed, Mark holding his ptop like a holy relic, Miya in a hotel robe with the belt barely tied.
Around them, chaos. Sirens. Broken gss. The Luxor’s tip cracked. Tourists crying. Locals stunned. Dust in the air like the city had exhaled too hard.
Mark stood there, panting, heart hammering, then looked at Miya.
“You good?”
“I think I left my panties on the chandelier.”
He nodded solemnly. “We’ll remember them fondly.”
She looked him over. Wet jeans. Shirtless. Hair wild.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“And you’re literally the sexiest disaster I’ve ever seen.”
She ughed—wild, breathless, beautiful.
And in that surreal, apocalyptic silence between aftershocks, they both just stood there.
Alive. Naked-ish. Shaken.
But together.
---
8:38 AM
The chaos was still unraveling.
Police cordoned off streets. Paramedics weaved through crowds. Helicopters buzzed overhead. Dust lingered like the hangover of a city that just got punched in the face.
Mark and Miya sat on the curb together, wrapped in thin emergency bnkets, toes still bare, adrenaline slowly crashing.
He was staring at his ptop, powered off now. Unscathed. Like some divine joke.
Miya leaned against him, quiet.
Then—softly—“I need to go.”
Mark blinked. “What? Go where?”
“My aunt’s pce. She’s across town, and I’ve got no clue if they’re okay.” Her voice cracked just a little. “I can’t... not check.”
He nodded, understanding slicing through the surreal haze.
“Right. Of course.”
They both stood, neither quite ready.
She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re weird as hell, Mark Spiel.”
“Thanks. I try.”
“If I don’t see you again... make something cool, yeah?”
He wanted to say more. Wanted to ask if she’d call. If he’d see her again. If she was real or just another piece of his wild, animated life.
But all he said was, “You’re in my storyboard now.”
She smiled—sad and beautiful—and disappeared into the crowd.
---
9:13 AM – Alley Behind a Broken Taco Bell
Mark had to pee.
Badly.
Everything was blocked off. Hotels closed. Stores shut. Even the damn gas stations were packed with people and panic. The city was gridlocked and spinning.
So, naturally, he found the least cursed alley he could find behind a taco joint, mumbled, “Sorry, world,” and stepped in.
Halfway through relieving himself against a dumpster, he heard the creak.
Looked up.
Saw a sb of concrete tumbling from the crumbled top of a nearby building.
“...You’ve gotta be f—”
---
Darkness.
Total, numbing darkness.
No pain. No falling sensation. Just a click. Like someone shut the game off.
And then—
White. Light. Silence.
A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
> “Congratutions, Mark Spiel. You have died.”
Mark blinked. He was... floating?
Naked. Again. Of course.
“...Dude. I literally just survived the hottest night of my life. I was gonna animate something legendary. Couldn’t I have died like, cooler?”
> “You have been selected by the Great Randomizer for ISEKAI ENTRY LOTTERY #90732.”
“Excuse me?!”
A glowing UI floated in front of him—like some messed-up anime menu.
> You’ve Been Chosen!
Cause of Death: Crushed by Debris (While Peeing)
Mood at Time of Death: Mildly Relieved
Mark stared. Mouth open.
“No. Nope. I refuse to get isekai’d while half-naked and still slightly hungover.”
The UI beeped.
> Initializing Transfer in 3… 2… 1…
The world exploded in color.
Mark screamed, “AT LEAST GIV
E ME PANTS—”
---
...Nothing.
No pain. No fear. No dramatic slow-mo.
Just… void.
Mark floated somewhere pitch bck and unreasonably quiet, like the universe had put him in timeout.
Then—
DRUMROLL.
Spotlights fshed on from nowhere. A glimmering stage lit up beneath him, made of floating TV screens showing every embarrassing moment from his life—childhood tantrums, anime marathons, that time he cried over the One Piece timeskip.
A booming voice, overly dramatic and possibly British, echoed all around:
> “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, AND ALL BEINGS BETWEEN—WELCOME TO THE AFTERLIFE INITIATION EXPERIENCE FOR: MARK. SPIEL!”
Confetti exploded in the air.
Mark floated down onto the stage, still completely naked. A giant glowing pixel bar censored his lower half with the text:
[CENSORED FOR SANITY – YOU’RE WELCOME]
“What the actual—”
> “CONGRATULATIONS, MARK! You have died! But not just any death! No no no—your demise was so absurd, so beautifully inconvenient, that you’ve triggered a Golden Ticket Reincarnation Event!”
A massive floating wheel appeared behind him. Giant gold letters read:
> “ISEKAI LOTTERY – SPIN YOUR FATE!”
Mark stared up, jaw sck. “Is this hell? Is this just naked hell with anime fonts?”
The voice continued, chipper and unhinged:
> “Your death—crushed while urinating behind a taco establishment during a post-coital earthquake escape—has been decred:
UNIQUE. HEROIC. DUMB.
For this reason, you are now eligible for the exclusive and highly unreliable prize of:
A BRAND NEW WORLD.”
A marching band of tiny chibi versions of Mark marched by pying recorders poorly.
“I’m not even mad,” he muttered. “This is incredible.”
Then, a giant golden scroll unfurled in front of him midair. On it, in calligraphy:
> "You have not yet been isekai’d. Please stand by."
Your transition is currently pending approval from the Department of Cosmic Narrative Flow. Estimated wait time:
Between 3 seconds and 3 millennia.
Please enjoy this mandatory orientation while you wait.
Mark blinked. “Orientation—?”
And just like that—everything paused......
Shantunu17
a good day you get id, a bad day your home gets destroyed by earthquake, then you die, but wait you get Isekaid.
Yes , it's a normal day.. please wake up.
