What kind of monster are you? Look around. This world? It's not some far-off nightmare. You—the one reading this—do you think you're innocent? Clean? Better than the rest? Do you imagine yourself as some hero, untouched by the darkness? Or are you the monster who feeds on lust without remorse? The one who buys pleasure crafted from shattered lives and plastic smiles? The one who turns a blind eye when flesh is traded like currency? The one who thinks a body—whether human or doll—is just another product to consume? You're complicit. And if you think this is fiction, a story to pass the time—ask yourself:
What kind of monster are you? Because this world is already here. And it's looking for monsters like you.
✦ ✦ ✦
"She burned dinner again, Pondaru. I told her not to use the fish grill. Who the hell deep-fries tofu in a fish grill!?" Dad's voice crackled over the phone, a mix of irritation and helplessness.
I closed my eyes and leaned back into the cab seat, head thudding gently against the vinyl. The driver said nothing. Just city lights flickering past in streaks of gold and smog.
"I'm on my way home," I said softly. "I'll fix it."
I always did.
They relied on me. Not like parents should rely on a child—but like they'd both silently agreed long ago: I was the one who kept things running. The peacemaker. The planner. The grown-up in a house full of grown-ups who never quite grew up.
They fought, forgot things, set off smoke alarms. I cooked, cleaned, mediated, and still somehow got awards at school and stood in photos with paper certificates that didn't mean much.
My name popped up on the cab's digital profile: Pondaru Yamada. The driver looked at it twice, then up at me in the rearview mirror. "Pondaru, huh?" he said with a smirk. "That's a new one." I smiled politely.
I was used to it. Most people just called me "Pon." Not because they were close.
But because they couldn't believe anyone would actually be named Pondaru. It sounded made-up. Silly. Like a mascot.
Even my friends poked fun at it, calling me Pandaru like I was some cartoon panda with a backpack full of homework and unpaid bills. But I never corrected them. Because honestly? It sounded silly. Mom gave it to me—Even if she couldn't make a meal without setting something on fire.
I stared out the window as the taxi crossed a bridge slick with rain. The city stretched out beneath me, lights shimmering like fireflies caught in the dark. Trees lined the riverbank, their leaves heavy with rain, rustling softly in the breeze. The smell of wet earth drifted through the cracked window.
I wasn't taking the bus tonight. Not with how my chest felt—tight, electric. Like something terrible was about to happen if I didn't get there fast. "Just a little longer," I whispered to no one.
"I'm coming home."
Night stretched thin with nothing but the dark to keep me company. But quiet never meant peace. My phone buzzed again. Another missed call from Dad. Probably yelling about the smoke alarm by now. And Mom? Still pretending she didn't do anything wrong—just waving the towel at the ceiling like that would make the blackened tofu and melted fish grill vanish.
I closed my eyes.
I wasn't supposed to be the one holding this family together.
But somehow, I always was. When they forgot bills. When they lost things. When they needed dinner fixed or a broken something. They didn't lean on each other. They leaned on me.
My parents, my teachers, the other kids who smiled at me in the halls.
To them, I was the boy who fit in—the familiar face, the polite nod, the one who always did what was expected. Never late. Never loud. Never a problem. But beneath all those smiles, beneath the good grades and the "yes sirs," it took a toll.
Being the one everyone relied on without asking if I ever wanted to be that person, still...
I did it anyway. Not because I wanted to. But because if I stopped, if I let go—everything might fall apart. And I didn't want to be the reason for that.
The truth is… I was just a boy who was barely holding himself together. I wanted to be a kid.
Just once. To sit in the hallway and cry when things got bad, or hide under my covers and admit I didn't know what to do.
But that wasn't my purpose. I had no chance to be careless or reckless—no chance to do lewd things like everyone joked about at school. I was always just that invisible.
I know my parents loved me though; Mom would bring me tea we couldn't afford, just because she said I looked tired. Dad fixed my bike before work, even when we weren't speaking.
And my little sister—she was the only one who really saw the true Pondaru.
⟣⟣⟣⟣⟢
One night when I was sitting at my desk in my room—that too-clean-for-a-teenager room, with bills spread out like a bad joke in front of me—numbers I barely understood, deadlines I couldn't miss. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving.
I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair.
"Rent due tomorrow... phone bill past due... power company threatening to shut off again." I let out a bitter laugh. "Guess oxygen's next on the list."
The pen slipped from my fingers.
"Why the hell does everything cost so much just to exist?" I slammed a paper aside, then immediately regretted the sound it made. "...If I miss another payment, we're screwed. Completely screwed."
That's when I heard it. Her soft footsteps, hesitant but steady. My little sister appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and wet, her pajamas rumpled.
"I had a nightmare," she whispered.
Without saying another word, she walked over and sat beside me.
I didn't even realize I was holding my breath. She reached out and grabbed my hand.
"Stop," she said quietly. "Just for a little while."
I wanted to argue, to tell her there was no time, no space for breaks—but she squeezed my hand like she meant it. As she knew, I was losing my mind.
I sighed and gave her a crooked smile. "A nightmare, huh? What was it this time? Giant talking bills chasing you? Or maybe Dad's wrench monster again?"
She sniffled, her lips twitching into the faintest smile.
"Come on," I said, trying to sound casual. "You don't have to make stuff up just to check if your super cool, handsome big brother is still alive."
"Super cool?" she muttered. "You look like a zombie."
"Ouch. Brutal honesty from my favorite critic."
That earned a soft giggle—the smallest sound, but it cut through the heaviness in my chest like light through fog.
I shut the bills, pushed them aside.
My bed sat just behind the desk, right in the middle of the room. I swung my legs around and climbed in, the mattress sighing under me.
"What was it about this time?" I asked, sounding more like a therapist than someone who probably needed one more than anyone else that night.
But she didn't say anything.
She just stood up, and without another word, climbed into my bed—right beside me.
She was always quiet, never the type to make noise or fuss. But sometimes, she was like me—carrying the weight of the world in silence.
I reached over her and pulled the string of the lamp, bathing the room in soft light.
"Look," I said, pointing to the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. I always did this, and she always looked pleased to see them.
I gave a lopsided grin. "What? You don't have to thank me for that. Having you around's already enough of a reward, you know?"
I don't know what I'd do if she wasn't here. I love my little sister dearly, and I can't imagine a world without being her older brother.
I began to close my eyes.
"Pondaru."
"Hmm? What's up, squirt?"
She whispered in the dark, "You were gone."
No fuss, no tears. Just quiet fact.
I let out a small laugh, rolling onto my side to face her. "That's what you had a nightmare about? Something as silly as me leaving?" I shook my head. "Yeah, right. Not even if someone offered me a million dollars, I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, kid."
Her small laugh was muffled against my shoulder as she hugged me tight.
I gave her a reassuring squeeze, pretending it was no big deal. But inside, I meant every word.
"See? Nothing to worry about," I said softly, patting her head. "Now go to sleep before I start charging you rent for emotional support."
"Ponmmdaruuhhmm..."
I cracked one eye open lazily. "What now? You always pull this when it's bedtime."
She mumbled again, half-asleep. "Canyousmmmammmmthatmmmalwaymmmm..."
"What? Hey—pick your head up, I can't understand sleep talk."
She lifted her head just enough to whisper clearly this time:
"Can you... sing me that song you always sing when there's a thunderstorm?"
For a second, I just looked at her. Same sleepy eyes, same little pout she always had when she was scared.
I sighed through a smile. "You're lucky I'm such a softie."
Then I started humming one of the old songs our mother used to sing when we were little—the kind they'd sing late at night to calm us down, when everything felt too big and scary.
♪ "They said love fades, but what do they know?
I still see your face in the afterglow."
I don't know why but singing it always made me feel like I was holding onto something real, something unbroken.
♪ "You dream too much, my sleepy friend,
I told you once, I'll say again—
if the world falls down, I'll still be near,
you're kinda stuck with me, I fear~" ♪
Maybe that's why my voice sounded clearer then, softer but steady. It was a piece of the past I could still reach, a thread back to when life wasn't so heavy.
♪ "So close those eyes, don't lose your grin,
'cause when you wake, I'll be back again.
Even if I'm late, even if I snore—
I'm not leavin', that's for sure~" ♪
We used to sing it together all the time—me, her, and Mom and Dad—sometimes as a lullaby, sometimes just to remind each other we were still here, still fighting.
her grip tightened even more—but when I looked down, I realized she was already asleep. Her fingers clung to my shirt like even her dreams were afraid I'd vanish.
"Hahaha..... silly girl."
I closed my eyes, feeling the tight knot in my chest loosen just a little as the steady rise and fall of her breathing settled against me. Her breath was warm on my skin, and I felt the faintest touch of drool soaking through my shirt. Ewww.
I think I even smiled a little. The world felt still.
Then—
⟣⟣⟣⟣⟢
the screech of tires, sharp and sudden—cut through the silence. The world jolted violently as the car swerved hard, metal scraping, glass cracking. My heart slammed against my ribs, yanking me back to a nightmare I never saw coming. Headlights blazed into the taxi's dark interior. Too close. Too fast.
"Hey! Watch out!" My voice cracked, sharp and desperate.
But it was too late. Inside the cab lit up like a stage—the world jerked violently with the sound of shrieking metal.
CRRNNNCH!
The world slammed sideways. Something yanked me hard. THWUMP!
The seatbelt caught me across the chest like a steel whip.
And then—
CRACK.
Something inside me snapped.
A sound tore out of me—more animal than voice—and then the belt tore loose, and I was thrown into the door. "Grrrraaah!"
I couldn't breathe—not right. It was like fire lit up under my skin, and it didn't stop. SHHH-CRACK! Glass exploded—tiny shards drifting in the air like deadly snowflakes.
The driver's face was a mess of blood and glass, his eyes wild and pleading.
"Help," he said. Just one word.
But what was I supposed to do?
"W-wait here, I'll go get someone—gerrrrugh—!"
Pain exploded through my ribs, sharp and electric. "Ahh—dammit, my ribs!" I hissed, clutching my chest. I tried to move again, to push off the seat, but something heavy pinned me down.
"What the hell—come on—move!" I shouted at my own legs, trying to shove free. Nothing. My thighs wouldn't budge, numb and burning all at once.
"No, no, no, not now…" I muttered, voice cracking. "Come on, move—just move!"
I slammed my fists against the seat, frustration drowning the panic. "Don't you dare die on me, man! I'll—I'll get us both out—"
The driver blinked weakly, blood running down his cheek, his lips trembling like he wanted to speak but couldn't.
"Hey, hey, don't try to talk! Save your breath!" I said quickly, reaching for his arm. "We're gonna be okay, alright? Just hang in there—"
But he didn't answer.
That's when the weight in my chest really hit. My breaths came shallow, ragged. The world felt too small, too bright.
Still, I reached for my phone with shaking fingers. The screen was cracked—no, shattered—webs of glass cutting across it like frost. I tried tapping, swiping, anything, but the touch didn't respond. The display stayed black.
"Come on… please, come on…" My thumb smeared blood across the screen. Nothing. No signal, no light. Just my reflection in broken glass.
I swallowed hard. My stomach lurched. I could taste metal. I was still shaking—nauseous—frozen in that terrible stillness.
The driver's head tilted to the side, his eyes half-open, glassy.
"...No. No, no, no. C'mon!" I shook him lightly. "You can't just—hey!"
Nothing.
Silence was the only thing that called back.
"It... it can't be—" My voice broke. My head wobbled like it didn't belong to me, too heavy to hold upright. Everything tilted, swam. I stared down at the driver's face—broken, bloodied, still. For the first time in my life, I was looking at a real dead body.
And I couldn't look away.
"I–wah–do—I–" The words tumbled, catching somewhere between my chest and throat. Nothing came out right.
Then—footsteps approached,not the panicked scramble of bystanders. They were, Sharp, and Purposeful.
They didn't shout. Didn't run.
Everything about them was quiet. Controlled.
I blinked, trying to focus. The world was grainy, like a screen going out of sync.
Black boots. Black gloves. No emblems No flashing lights. Just shapes—sharp silhouettes moving through the blur.
"Mmh… tha—thank… god… someone… came…" The words fell out of me, soft and slurred, barely mine.
They ripped the door open without a word. One of them knelt beside me, shining something cold and blue into my eye, His face was… nothing. A mask, maybe? Or just shadow. It was hard to tell.
"Conscious," he muttered. "Barely."
I tried to speak. "H-help… my… I think my ribs…" But I didn't get to finish. Then hands—tight around my arms—they started pulling. Hard. "D-don't—ah! Don't be so rough!" I gasped, every tug sending lightning through my chest.
My legs snagged on something inside the wreck—twisted metal, maybe the seat frame—but they didn't stop. They yanked again. "Hhhnnngg!" I felt something tear—maybe inside me. I couldn't tell. But whoever it was, kept going— cold, focused— dragging me out of the crushed metal and onto the cold pavement. They dropped me hard.
For a second, I gasped—just a shallow breath, sharp and ragged— But before I could even catch it, they grabbed me again, yanking me forward.
My legs scraped along the ground, useless and burning. My head lolled forward, heavy and out of control. For a moment, I just leaned there—dizzy, sick, barely hanging on. Then, with everything I had left, I forced myself to look up.
A van door was already opening. I saw the inside—dimly lit, clean, sterile. No red cross. No medical equipment I recognized.
"Wait," I croaked. "W-where are you taking me?"
I was hoisted inside like dead weight onto a medical bed. The doors slammed shut behind me, muffling the world—and the faint, distant chirp of crickets outside.
Inside, they strapped something tight around my chest, pressed a needle into my arm—an IV, maybe. Cooling fluid pumped into my veins.
The burning dulled just enough. Everything still hurt. But… finally, I could rest. I was tired—bone-deep tired—and glad to be somewhere that might help me feel better again.
"Test motor function," one of them said coldly to the other.
Another grabbed my hand. "Move your fingers."
I did, slowly.
"Legs."
I tried, but pain shot up my side, but nothing moved. My thighs refused to respond. My toes might as well have been part of the bed.
They nodded anyway.
"Paralyzed," the second one stated bluntly.
"Paralyzed…?" My voice cracked. My chest tightened. "No—no, I can't be paralyzed," I said, breath hitching.
"My family needs me." Tears blurred my vision. I couldn't feel my legs. Couldn't move. "Please," I begged, "can you call them? Please—just tell them I'm going to be okay…"
But no one answered.
Just silence. And the hum of the van, already moving.
The van rattled softly beneath me. I couldn't feel my legs. I couldn't move. My vision blurred, edges darkening.
My eyes fluttered— And then closed. But I could hear. Voices. Two of them. Calm. Detached. Not doctors—too clinical, too clean. More like scientists checking their work.
"Face is intact. Skin unbroken—structurally symmetrical. Features clearly feminine,"
"Hair shows structural damage—replaceable," the other added, just as clinical.
One of them forced my eyelid open, holding my gaze like I was nothing more than a specimen. "Eye clarity: average. Chest structure: androgynous. Small frame overall." I lay there frozen, drifting past in slow, soft pulses.
"Feet—size 9.1 inches. Hands: soft. Fingernails need trimming."
"Genitals—small," Their voices were flat, emotionless—like they were cataloging an object, not a person.
The other chuckled. "Cute, though. Like the rest of him. Might work for specialty clients."
My stomach twisted. A lump formed in my throat. I couldn't move. Couldn't even cover myself. I was just lying there—broken, helpless—while they discussed my body like I was a doll on a shelf.
A pen scratched something down. I heard it. Every tick of ink. Ranking me. Piece by piece. I told myself I was being saved. These had to be more advanced than a regular ambulance. I still thought they might be doctors. Some private evac team. Just... cold. Unusual. Maybe corporate.
Then came the moment that shattered the illusion. Without warning, they flipped me around—rough and swift. I barely had time to register the movement before I was face down on the bed, every breath burning sharp and shallow. One of them leaned over me, fingers at my waistband. But then the hand paused. Fingers spread slightly. They gripped the side of my hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh of my—
"Shlorp…"
My breath hitched. My brain tried to justify it. Maybe this was protocol? But deep down, I knew. That wasn't care. That wasn't help. That was a palm on my bottom, cold and possessive.
My heart kicked into overdrive. "S-stop," I breathed. "That's not—" Fingers wrapped tightly around my wrists, pressing them down against the hard bed beneath me. My body was already weak, broken, but I tried to squirm. Anything to break free— but I couldn't even lift my head.
The weight of them held me still. Not violently. Not with rage. Just procedure. I wasn't a person to them...
"Subject is viable," one of them said.
"No—let go—!" I thrashed, but I was too weak. My body screamed, but nothing came out but choked whimpers.
Then the needle came. "Ahh! Nngh—!" I cried out, my eyes snapping wide. Panic flared like fire under my skin. I bit my lip, and my whole body shuddered.
My eyebrows knitted together, muscles tensing as I struggled to look up. "W-what…what is—ugh—stop!" I tried to lift my head, my face pressing into the cold, hard bed. My mouth muffled against the surface. "I—can't—move—!"
I clawed at the straps holding me down. My limbs felt heavy, sluggish, and unresponsive. "Let me up! I… I said stop—!" My voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. Darkness was already pulling at the edges of my vision. My muscles went slack, the fight draining out of me. "No… no… don't—don't let me—!" I whispered, fading.
The world blurred further, edges melting away as a strange numbness seeped into my arms and legs. The last thing I heard before darkness swallowed me whole was a calm, clinical voice—soft but final:
"Positive for the next stage."