Waking up and seeing Booba!

"Wait, no! No psychiatrist! Just send me to my grandma's house! I swear I'll be a good boy!"

July paused.

She turned.

She stared at him for a long, long moment, as the weight of his words settled in. Then, her gaze drifted to the VR headset. A slow, horrifying realization crawled up her spine like a spider made of pure dread.

Her face contorted in horror.

"You… MONSTER! Not your grandma!"

With the speed of a woman fleeing a crime scene, she slammed the door shut and ran for her goddamn life.

"WAIT! WHAT THE FUCK?! WAIT, LET ME EXPLAIN!"

Alex sprang up from his chair, desperate to clear his name. But alas—fate had other plans.

The moment his foot hit the ground—SQUELCH.

Oh no.

Fresh. Warm. Viscous.

His divine nectar had betrayed him.

Like a tragic cartoon character stepping on a banana peel, his leg went flying, and the next thing he knew—BAM!

His whole body slammed back into the floor, his head bouncing off the tiles like a basketball in a really depressing NBA highlight.

Dizzy. Disoriented. Probably concussed.

As the world blurred around him, he reached up, running his fingers through his sweat-drenched, matted, disgusting hair—a hair ecosystem that had not seen shampoo, conditioner, or basic human decency in over a week. It was wet now. But not with sweat.

He couldn't see it.

But oh… he could smell it.

Blood.

The only other thing in this room that could compete with the overwhelming stench of day-old nut.

A smell so aggressively vile that even July had been spared from it—because the sheer concentration of musky, cheesy devastation in this room meant that Alex was the only man alive with the nasal immunity to perceive it.

Alex lay there, his body broken, his soul halfway out the door, hovering between life and eternal degeneracy.

"I c-can't move..." he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

He couldn't even speak properly, let alone move his limbs. Paralyzed—not by fear, not by injury, but by sheer, catastrophic levels of self-abuse.

"Am... I... d-dying...?"

And that's when reality bitch-slapped him straight in the heart.

"One... last... ride..."

Even in his final moments, this fallen warrior, this champion of degeneracy, reached out with a trembling hand. Not for help. Not for salvation.

No.

For his long-suffering, thoroughly overworked, charred-to-hell little brother.

His fingers wrapped around the remains—a sight that no mortal should witness, an unholy shade of black and red, as if it had been cooked over an open flame and left to rot in the sun.

But did he care?

Not even slightly.

With the last of his strength, he began to stroke.

"Oh, Granny... h-here's your prince charming… after a century's worth of waiting..."

He sang. Fucking sang.

With his last breaths, his broken mind drifted toward the toothless, nightmarish gilf who had haunted his dreams for two whole months.

And then?

Then, he slipped away.

Not into heaven. Not into hell.

No, Alex drifted into an endless slumber, where he could forever dance with his wrinkled, undead goddess.

That evening.

Alex's parents opened the door.

They had been worried. Their son hadn't come out all day.

But nothing—NOTHING—could have prepared them for the scene of sheer, Lovecraftian horror that greeted them.

Their son—DEAD, his lifeless body sprawled out with a disturbing, satisfied smile on his face.

But that wasn't the worst part.

No.

His dick—his goddamn, suffering, officially retired dick—was no longer attached to him.

It was in his fucking hand.

Not a drop of blood. Not a sign of struggle.

It was as if the damn thing had simply quit its job, packed its bags, and walked off the job site.

Like it had filed for early retirement after years of back-breaking labor.

Like it had looked at his body and said, "Nah, bro, we ain't making it outta this one. I'm tapping out."

And it had.

It had literally fallen off, like an overworked intern who just gave up on life and turned in his resignation letter without warning.

His mother screamed. His father gagged.

Somewhere in the depths of the afterlife, Alex smiled.

Because finally, he was free.

...

"Poor guy… wakey, wakey…"

"Come on, just leave him there. We don't have time for this."

"B-but he's stranded here alone in the middle of the woods…"

"So? We need to find the demon lackey before he lays waste to an entire city. What do you wanna save? One random dude's life or thousands?"

"That..."

"Oh, guys, look! He's waking up!"

Alex had actually been awake this whole time, listening to their low-budget drama unfold around him.

He had been planning the perfect moment to dramatically rise, maybe even groan a little, make them think he was some kind of mysterious, tragic hero.

Not that he cared what they thought. No, not at all. He was a Sigma Male™—a lone wolf, an enigma, a shadow in the night. Definitely not some guy who had just been rotting on the ground like a roadkill raccoon.

But then… he heard her.

A lovely female voice.

Oh, temptation.

He was torn. On one hand, waking up meant seeing a pretty woman. On the other hand, it also meant interacting with her, and that was beneath him.

He was a Sigma, and Sigmas do not waste words on lowly creatures like women.

Not that he was afraid to talk to them or anything.

Guys. Seriously. Trust him.

"Oh my? Yes, his eyes are moving!"

"Dammit! We leave once he recovers, alright?"

"Show some compassion, Alric. He's a fellow human being."

"Hmph…"

Alric scoffed, but Alex could hear it—that tiny shift in his voice. That subtle hint of jealousy.

'That's right, Alric.'

The Sigma energy was too powerful.

Alex finally turned his head toward the angelic voice—the sweet, melodic symphony that had graced his unworthy ears. Not the sassy, estrogen-deficient gremlin who was barking about leaving him behind.

And honestly? He couldn't blame them if they wanted to run for the hills. If his room had smelled even half as bad as he suspected, then they deserved a goddamn medal just for sticking around this long.

But none of that mattered right now.

Because Alex had a mission.

'Dear, merciful God of Lust, the only true deity I believe in… Please, please bless me with a big booba goth doctor!!!'

He prayed with the desperation of a man begging for his final meal before execution.

Then, with the skill of a veteran anime protagonist, he snapped his eyes open—not in a slow, groggy haze, no sir. None of that half-lidded, blurry, 144p resolution bullshit.

No.

Alex activated Ultra Instinct, opening his eyes instantly, in crisp, cinematic 8K, ensuring that the very first thing he saw was a high-definition shot of his potential waifu before she could move away.

And holy mother of mammaries.

BOOBA.

REAL. LIFE. BOOBA.

His mouth hung open like a fish who just realized it got reeled out of the water and was about to die.

His brain short-circuited. His soul left his body.

BOOBA.

He didn't even register what the hell she was wearing. Could have been a nun's habit. Could have been a full medieval suit of armor. Hell, could have been a giant potato sack—it didn't matter.

He didn't notice the lush, unfamiliar greenery surrounding him. Didn't notice the gaggle of armed medieval-looking warriors standing nearby, fully armored and looking like they had just stepped out of a historical battle reenactment.

Nope. None of that existed.

Because right now, his eyes were full.

His soul had been blessed.

His entire existence had been redeemed.

For he had witnessed the divine, the one true sacred sight, the pillars of life itself.

BOOBA.

.

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