"...How realistic can a game that claims 100% simulation truly be?"
Akira's skepticism vanished the moment the world resolved into focus. It was replaced by a breathless, predatory stillness.
The scene before him was not the stylized, neon-drenched fantasy of standard VR. This was something else entirely—a violation of light and shadow so precise it felt like trespassing. Moonlight pooled on rumpled sheets, illuminating a woman lying supine on the bed. One hand was pressed to her mouth, stifling a sound. The other clenched and unclenched at her side in a helpless, erratic rhythm. If he strained, he could hear it: the wet, shuddering gasp of a sob caught in her throat.
This wasn't enhanced reality. This was replicated reality.
Sight, touch, hearing… even the faint, floral scent of her shampoo mixed with the metallic tang of fear. The simulation engaged every sense except taste, and that single omission only made the experience more terrifyingly complete. A slow, hot wire of anticipation coiled in Akira's gut. Why make an H-game with this level of fidelity? It wasn't entertainment; it was an indictment.
It's practically an invitation to crime.
The thought was distant, academic. His body was already moving on a familiar, shameful script. He summoned his in-game phone—the interface a cool, familiar overlay in his vision—and tapped the record button. The plot was a cliché: leverage, coercion, forced compliance. In any other game, this was the prelude to the mechanically gratifying, one-handed play segment. Who worried about morality in a fantasy?
But here, the lines bled. His own heartbeat was a frantic drum in his ears, a surge of adrenaline so sharp it tasted like copper. This is too real.
The woman beneath the window tensed, then went utterly limp, her attention scattered, spent. Akira saw his chance. No quest markers, no glowing prompts. Only the silent, weighty agency of his own will.
The window slid open on oiled rails, soundless. He shed his shoes, the worn floorboards cool and grainy under his bare feet. One step. Two. The distance closed.
In the aftermath of her private release, she now lay with an arm draped over her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, vulnerable rhythm. Asleep? Unconscious? The realism was paralyzing. The delicate texture of her skin in the low light, the individual strands of hair stuck to her damp temple—it was a level of detail that felt less like programming and more like voyeurism.
With this… why would anyone ever log out?
A thought, dark and giddy, followed: It'd be worth dying in here.
He moved. One hand clamped over her mouth and nose, his body weight pinning her down. She woke into instant, blind panic—a thrashing animal trapped beneath him. Then, he held the phone before her eyes, the damning video playing silently.
"Madam," he whispered, the scripted line feeling foul and personal on his tongue. "You wouldn't want this to find its way online, would you?"
The struggle died. Astonishment flooded her features, then a fear so profound it glazed her eyes. Her surrender was a palpable thing—a wilting of spirit he could feel through the simulated contact.
"Just let this happen," he murmured, the justification already ash in his mouth, "and it stays between us."
He didn't wait for a reply. The transition was seamless, brutal, and shockingly immersive. Her body, betraying its own prepared state, offered no mechanical resistance. This wasn't a game's conquest animation; it was a raw, grunting, sweat-slicked act of possession. The realism was no longer a marvel—it was a mirror, and the thing it reflected back at him was monstrous.
Two hours later, he was sprawled beside her, lungs burning, the world a blur of sensation and shame. Just as the thought of a second round flickered in his mind, a translucent hourglass icon materialized in his vision—its sands run out.
FORCED LOGOUT: ANTI-ADDICTION PROTOCOL.
Akira jolted upright in his own cheap bed, the phantom sensations clinging to his skin. Disoriented, he fumbled to pull down his sweatpants but there was nothing on his crotch. No physical evidence. It was as if the violation had occurred in a separate reality, leaving only the psychic stain.
As expected of a crossover world… the rules are different.
His hands trembled as he grabbed his real phone, searching for the game icon. He tapped it. Instead of loading, a notification bloomed:
> VITALITY INSUFFICIENT. ESTIMATED RECOVERY: 12:00:00.
"Damn it!" he snarled at the empty room. "You can't just—! Let me recharge! Take my money!" He stabbed at the screen, searching for a payment portal. None existed.
Instead, he found menus he hadn't noticed before: Character and Inventory.
He opened his profile.
[ NAME: Akira Kurusu ]
[ AGE: 18 ]
[ OCCUPATION: Convenience Store Clerk (Shibuya) ]
[ STRENGTH: 1.8 ]
[ AGILITY: 0.8 ]
[ STAMINA: 1.7 ]
[ SPIRIT: 0.8 ]
[ SKILL: Hand-to-Hand Combat Proficiency (10%) ]
The blood drained from his face. The name, the age, the pathetic stats that mirrored his own feeble reality… This wasn't a generated avatar. The game hadn't asked for his preferences.
It had scanned him.
In that single, seamless instant of connection, it had mapped everything—his biology, his identity, his life.
The terror that finally broke through was cold, clean, and absolute. This wasn't just a game. It was an autopsy.
The logic of this crossover world had long since stopped surprising Akira. If Sword Art Online posters plastered the city, then the technology humming from his phone was just another part of the scenery.
The screen glowed in the pre-dawn gloom, displaying the interface of the mysterious app, "Conquest." The first chapter glowed with an ominous title: "Night Raid: Mother and Daughter." Progress bars pulsed beneath it:
Mother (Izumi Kirishima): 21%
Daughter (Izumi Sagiri): 0%
Unlock Chapter 2 at 80% Capture Progress.
A cluster of trophy icons sat beside it, most greyed out. Only one gleamed with a soft, golden light. Akira tapped it.
[Smooth and Flowing]
Recording Initiated. Unlawful Entry. Psychological Intimidation. Netori: Completion.
Your operations were seamless. Bonus Granted: Stamina +0.5, Agility +0.5.
His eyes scanned the locked trophies with a collector's fervent itch: [Invincible Old Man], [Abdicate the Throne]... His OCD twinged. The in-game shop offered equally bizarre wares: Obedience Tincture, One-Log Bridge, Magic Penetration Rod, Ergonomic Chair of Sustenance…
A slow smile spread across his face. The app hadn't lied. Twelve immersive, visceral hours within its simulation had left his mind buzzing with clarity, not fatigue. It truly could replace sleep.
7:00 AM. Time for the mundane world to resume. He rose, the phantom sensations of digital touch still lingering on his fingertips, and headed for the shower.
The hot water steamed the glass enclosure. As he washed, his mind replayed the night's conquest. The woman—her reactions, her form—had felt too authentic, too uniquely detailed for a standard NPC. A name surfaced from the depths of anime trivia: Izumi Kirishima. From Engaged to the Unidentified.
Probably. Just a clever reskin, a familiar face to enhance the fantasy. He chuckled, lathering his hair. Next time, he'd go for 100% completion. A low, pleased hum vibrated in his throat.
Across the quiet town, in a home that felt emptier than its rooms, Izumi Kirishima woke.
Sunlight painted streaks across the rumpled sheets. Her body awoke with a deep, foreign ache—a full, throbbing memory that refused to be categorized as a dream. The details were a sensual blur: heat, pressure, a shocking proficiency that had dismantled her composure, leaving her mind blank and buzzing.
And then, his impossible disappearance. Vanishing into the still air of her own bedroom. Monster? Ghost? A wielder of some bizarre power?
She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. A complicated shudder ran through her. He was… young. Handsome in a careless way. An invader. A criminal.
Yet her skin still hummed where he'd touched it.
Pushing the conflict aside, she padded to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a woman flushed, her skin glowing with an almost post-bath radiance. The evidence she instinctively searched for—the faint scratches, the marks of possession—were already fading, vanishing as if absorbed by her very cells. A final, silent erasure of the proof.
She was so very lonely.
As she turned to leave, her gaze caught the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. She was certain she had shut it firmly last night.
Through the narrow gap, the morning light illuminated a slice of her daughter Sagiri's room. The girl was a small mound under her duvet. One foot had escaped, clad in a sock whose pristine white was smudged with a telling gray at the sole—a silent testament to a restless, perhaps listening, night.