People make choices that are convenient for them.
No matter how much they act like they care—
"Oh, thank you so much! I knew you were a good person!"
Yeah, something like that.
But if you actually believe they mean it—
That they truly believed your kindness to them—
Then there's no doubt about it.
You're the fool in the room.
And I refuse.
I refuse to be a fool.
I was born into a well-off family.
We had water when we were thirsty.
Food that could keep the stomach from growling.
My health? I'm glad to say it's good, all my limbs are intact.
I could make a living now—by whatever means necessary.
In the end, only my survival matters.
At least, that's what I've made myself believe.
And I'll keep believing it.
Because I have no one to trust.
And no one trusts me.
I am free.
This world is vast, constantly changing—
Especially now, after what I call…
"The Merge."
That's what I named it.
The day our modern world collided with the fictional setting from Journey to the Centre of the World.
The title might sound simple—explore the world, reach its center, and clear the game.
But I don't know much beyond that. Never cared.
Sure, I've seen the books, the comics, the posters.
It became insanely popular after that weird post.
You know the one:
"The world will change. The key is Journey to the Centre of the World."
It was posted by some unknown user—named 'foolsbride.'
And everyone on that app, somehow, was following him.
People were confused.
"Wait, who's this guy? I don't remember following them."
But the follower count was massive. Like he'd always been famous.
Excitement exploded.
Gamers downloaded the game.
Readers rushed to buy the novels and comics.
Even normies wanted in.
Me?
Hell no.
What was I going to do with any of that?
I've never been into games or novels.
Maybe when I was five, I liked toys.
But by a certain age, I'd already lost interest in things people use to escape reality—
To forget their depression or stress or whatever.
Bliss, huh?
A sweet little illusion running through everyone's mind.
…Though I guess I am starting to bald.
Sott Bitzche.
That's my name.
Not a nickname, not a joke—
My real name.
Disappointing, isn't it?
But don't pity me. Please don't.
Because I promise you—
I deserve this name.
I've worn it all my life.
I'm not hiding it.
I'm not changing it.
It doesn't matter what it means anymore.
I've made peace with it.
And you know what?
It sounds kinda nice.
Bitzche.
⸻
"Mister, can you tell me where the rice is kept?"
A woman—looked like she was in her mid-thirties—walked in, dragging a squeaky cart with a few things already loaded.
"You'll find it in the middle section, right side, next to the vegetables," I said flatly.
"Ah—thank you! I just came from there, didn't even notice it. Oh, and uh… do you mind helping me carry it?"
"No."
"…Eh?! How rude is this guy? I should totally report him to the manager."
Yeah, that's what I'm sure she's thinking.
She forgot I just helped her. That I even bothered to speak up at all.
One "no" and she's ready to throw a tantrum like I spat in her face.
That's people for you. They want sugarcoated lies, not plain truths.
You say "no" once, and suddenly you're the enemy.
Well, it doesn't matter.
My job was only supposed to be in the storeroom.
Now they've got me restocking shelves, sweeping the floor, even dealing with customers—
None of that was in the damn contract.
And to make things worse, it's nearly impossible to sneak something to eat here.
…
Yeah. I just got fired.
Well, more like I got the premonition of it. They told me to expect an email.
"Wonder if I'll even get one this time," I muttered, holding the dusty old dial-phone.
Doesn't matter. Fired is fired.
That marks the end of my third job this year.
I was almost proud—was about to break a 4-month streak, too.
I've been working mostly in supermarkets.
Why? I've got my reasons.
Big chains are easier to steal from.
You blend in. Slip something in your pocket.
But…
They're also quick to notice if you mess up.
Or if you're not smiling enough.
"Welp. Whatever."
I stepped out into the city night. The streets buzzing like always.
Skyscrapers lit up like slot machines, people laughing too loud, walking too fast.
"I don't get how people stay so damn hyper. What are they even doing?"
Probably drunk on that piss they call alcohol, chasing distractions like moths to neon.
I kept walking, hands in my pockets, until something caught my eye.
A bookstore window. Big display, flashing lights.
Journey to the Centre of the World.
Yeah, that damn book again.
Posters, plushies, game discs—all shoved up against the glass.
The weird thing about that book?
Every copy is different.
Different main characters. Different perspectives. Different stories.
It's like the book writes itself based on who picks it up.
Unless someone copies or sells it illegally, no two are the same.
People go crazy for it.
Pass copies around. Read multiple versions. Compare notes like it's scripture.
Their favorite?
Some villain character. Genius, handsome, charming—probably smells like fresh ink and delusion.
I think his name was Aaron West. There are posters of him all over 2nd Street.
And then there's another guy.
People swear he's the real "main character."
OP skills. Gorgeous companions. Tragic backstory that makes fangirls weep.
"How do I know all this?"
Hah. Dumb question.
This stuff has been around for years.
And I've been rotting away on this mortal plane for about two decades.
Of course I've heard the whispers, the rants, the fan-theories.
I pick up the pieces. Piece together the story.
Sometimes, I repeat what I've heard to some nerdy enthusiast, just to watch their eyes light up.
Sometimes, they correct me.
Sometimes, they start arguing with each other.
That's entertainment, I guess.
And me?
I just keep walking.