Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 13: In control (2)

"Guh—!"

I lurched over the basin, my body convulsing as wave after wave of nausea slammed into me. A torrent of burning liquid forced its way out of my throat, the acrid taste of alcohol and bile coating my tongue as I retched violently.

The sound was ugly—raw, guttural, wet. My whole body shook from the sheer force of it, my stomach clenching as if trying to purge everything inside me.

It wouldn't stop.

More.

And more.

I gasped between heaves, my throat raw, my chest aching from the strain. Cold sweat slicked my forehead, dripping down my temple as my vision swam. My limbs felt weak, trembling from exertion, every nerve in my body screaming at me.

I felt like I was dying.

Like my body was rejecting existence itself.

And maybe—just maybe—it was.

After what felt like forever, the retching finally slowed.

I coughed, spitting the last remnants of bile into the sink, my body sagging with exhaustion. My breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale shaky, uneven.

"Haaa... haaa..."

I gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, trying to steady myself, trying to force my lungs to work properly. My fingers dug into the cold porcelain, knuckles turning white as I clung to it like a lifeline.

My whole body was trembling.

Everything felt wrong.

My chest heaved, my legs barely supporting me, my head pounding as if someone was drilling into my skull.

The world wouldn't stop spinning.

I closed my eyes, sucking in another shaky breath, forcing myself to calm down.

But how the fuck could I?

I still had no idea what had happened.

No idea where I was.

No idea why I was here.

Everything was too chaotic.

Too sudden.

Too real.

I clenched my jaw, trying to silence the storm raging inside my mind.

I needed to think.

I needed to figure this out.

But right now?

I clenched the edges of the sink, my breathing still unsteady, my body still weak.

Everything felt surreal.

The cold porcelain under my fingers, the bitter taste of bile on my tongue, the lingering nausea twisting in my gut—it was all too real, but at the same time, it wasn't.

It felt like a fucking dream.

Or worse.

A nightmare.

I swallowed, forcing my dry throat to work, and let the words slip out before I could even stop them.

"There... in that fucking hospital..."

The memory flickered in my mind.

White walls.

The beeping of machines.

The cold, sterile scent of disinfectant.

The pain.

The unbearable, suffocating pain that had crushed me, that had taken me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my grip on the sink tightening.

"Did I... fucking die?"

The question hung in the air for only a second before the answer slammed into me.

Of course, I fucking did.

I felt it.

I remembered it.

The weakness. The spasms. The agony ripping through my chest as my body failed me. The final moments when the world went dark, when the machines screamed out my demise.

I fucking died.

And now?

I sucked in a sharp breath.

"And now... I'm in this bastard's body."

The thought made my stomach twist again, but this time, it wasn't nausea. It was disgust.

I reached forward, pressing the siphon with a shaky hand. The water rushed down the sink, taking the remnants of my vomit with it. The swirling liquid vanished, and in its place—

A reflection.

I looked up.

And there he was.

"Fuck..."

My lips barely moved, but the word escaped anyway, dripping with disbelief.

Chubby cheeks.

A huge belly, round and heavy, stretching against the buttons of an extravagant suit.

Thick legs, soft, untouched by hardship.

Blue eyes—empty, weak.

Black hair, styled neatly, like it was trying too hard to look good.

I knew this face.

I knew this fucking bastard.

The character I had just controlled.

The miserable, pathetic excuse of a man who had been groveling at Celia's feet.

The spineless worm who had let himself be walked all over.

The fool who had lost everything without even understanding why.

The protagonist of that godforsaken game.

I stared.

He stared back.

And for the first time, the reality of it truly hit me.

I wasn't just trapped in some random asshole's body.

I was him.

The main character.

The biggest loser in gaming history.

Damien Elford.

I gripped the sink, my knuckles still white, my breath still uneven—but I was finally starting to think.

The raw panic, the nausea, the overwhelming chaos had started to settle, just enough for my mind to function properly. The initial shock had passed, leaving me with something colder, something more dangerous.

Rationality.

I was here.

This body was real.

I had died.

And now I was Damien Elford.

That much was clear.

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But the real question was how the hell any of this happened.

I ran a hand down my face, feeling the unfamiliar softness of these cheeks, the weight of this flesh that wasn't mine. It was fucking wrong.

This wasn't some coma-induced fever dream.

This wasn't a hallucination.

I could feel too much, sense too much. The sweat on my skin, the tension in my muscles, the thudding bass from the club outside—it was all real.

Too real.

I swallowed, my throat still sore.

"How the hell..." I muttered under my breath. "How the fuck did this happen?"

It didn't make sense. None of this made sense.

One moment, I was on my deathbed, my body rotting from the inside out.

The next, I was in him.

A goddamn fictional character.

A fucking game character.

It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't even be thinkable.

And yet—

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to dig through the mess of thoughts in my head, searching for anything that could explain this.

And then—

I remembered.

The silhouette.

That thing. That thing I had seen before I lost consciousness, lurking just beyond the doctors, standing there, watching.

A grotesque, bloated figure.

A man with a hairy, open stomach.

Sitting in a fucking gaming chair.

A cold shudder ran through me as the memory snapped back into place.

"It was that fucker..."

The realization came slow, crawling through my mind like a sickness.

And with it came another memory.

Not just the shadow.

Not just the thing.

But the last message I had ever received before everything had gone to shit.

The dev's final words.

"Yeah... you would take responsibility, huh? Then let me see it."

"How would you take that responsibility?"

"You son of a bitch, you're all talk."

"You'll see."

I felt my stomach churn again, but this time it wasn't from nausea.

It was realization.

It was rage.

I sucked in a sharp breath, the pieces clicking together in my head.

"Fuck..." My voice was low, disbelieving. "Is this a fucking web novel or something?"

The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.

Almost.

Just because I left a review...

Just because I trashed their shitty, miserable game...

I got fucking transmigrated here?!

"You fucking kidding me?" I growled under my breath, my grip tightening on the sink.

If this was some divine punishment, some cosmic joke, then the universe had a fucked up sense of humor.

And if that bastard—the thing I had seen—was behind this?

Then I was going to find out why.

And more importantly—

How the fuck to get out.