A panel appeared — informing Nathan of yet another loss he had to accept.
[Shopping limit reached: 1 access per 24 hours in Week 1.]
[Try again tomorrow, bugged hunter.]
Nathan stared at the text.
For a long time. Like waiting for common sense that was never going to arrive.
"...Fuck," he muttered. "Still shirtless?"
The night air began to bite at his skin. Not sharply cold—but just enough to make his nipples feel existential.
Expressionless, he turned around and began walking back to the cave. His steps were heavy, not from fatigue, but from the sudden emotional weight pressing down on him.
"Good thing I’ve got Sleepus Instinct," he said, taking a deep breath.
"Otherwise, I would’ve jerked myself to frostbite by now."
His steps echoed faintly through roots and twigs.
"At least I can sleep without gooning... even if I’m shirtless."
When he reached the cave’s mouth, his eyes were drawn to the two figures already sound asleep.
The two dazzling beings who had kickstarted his entire cockventure.
They slept peacefully—as if they’d never disturbed the moral compass and soul of a horny man who still had feelings.
Nathan crept in quietly, then laid down at the edge of the straw bed, right on the outer side of Domina.
One arm bent to support his head. His gaze fixed on the ceiling of the cave.
Silent. But not empty.
His mind started playing words—slowly, but clearly:
Why... after I decided to love them properly...
All of a sudden, everything feels wrong?
His memories flickered.
Her hand on his shaft. Her words inside his mind.
A kiss made of words—that turned every previous declaration of "love" in his heart into a biological lie, rooted only in personal satisfaction.
Why does love feel this damn heavy?
His hand gripped a bit of straw beneath his back. Not from the cold. But from the truth he could no longer gaslight. He turned to the side, his back now facing Domina.
Between the cave wall and two sexy bunny-eared creatures, a man lay restless. He longed for carnal pleasure. He liked big breasts. Perfect asses that curved like half a heart when bent over.
But sadly, he was never diagnosed with high-spectrum psychopathy.
Even though he enjoyed it, the guilt still exist to haunt him.
His eyes slowly shut.
The passive skill Sleepus Instinct began to activate.
No sound, no flashy animation. Just a faint sensation on the nape of his neck—like a soft hand gently pulling him into the embrace of a dream.
His breathing eased. But his mind hadn’t completely settled. Residual feelings still lingered, like emotional sediment refusing to sink.
Why does it feel... easier to sleep when I had no feelings at all?
His body began to relax. The tension in his chest—caused by the night wind—melted away, sinking into the slightly itchy but surprisingly friendly straw bed.
His shaft was still stiff. But his soul still floated—like a broken cassette tape stuck on pause, not stop.
A few strands of Domina’s hair brushed against the back of his hand. Soft, warm, and far too human to be called a monster.
If I hugged her now, and rubbed my cock against her ass... then felt guilty afterward...
Would that guilt... make me love her even more?
Sleepus Instinct worked deeper.
Waves of drowsiness—absurd yet sacred—spread to his eyelids, his ears, and the tiny veins in his temples.
Like being caressed by an insomnia angel who had just taken early retirement.
The world began to blur.
But before fully sinking, a faint voice echoed inside his head.
Not the system. Not Domina. Not Livia.
Just himself—a smaller, doubtful version.
Does love... always come with guilt?
And then, his consciousness drifted—floating in emptiness.
Tiny white lights began to dot the void.
His awareness stirred inside the nothingness.
One of the lights stopped in front of him.
It slowly grew larger.
"What is this?" he muttered, staring at it as the glow began to consume him.
Suddenly, he found himself standing in a white room.
He looked down at his hands.
"What the fuck? Where the hell is this?"
"Wait... where are my pants?"
He touched his butt. And only then did he realize—he was completely naked in the middle of this glowing void.
The white room remained silent.
Nathan stood still, confused. One hand covered his still-erect cock, the other awkwardly shielding his ass. But it was pointless. This room didn’t recognize shame—and had no interest in his attempts to conceal visual sins.
A soft voice whispered from behind him.
Nathan spun around, reflexively, like a child caught jerking off in a metaphysical classroom.
The Tower Manager stood there.
White. Curvaceous. Disturbing.
Her black dress gleamed like sacred latex.
And her cleavage... wasn’t just exposed—it was exhibitionist. From her chest upward, she was left bare, like a theological challenge to any man desperate for divine enlightenment through titties.
She chuckled. Lightly, but painfully.
"Humans... how pitiful you are," she said in a tone like a twisted fairy-tale stepmother—too gentle to trust.
"You’re drowning in guilt... after climaxing repeatedly in a happiness you try to disguise as love."
Nathan stared at her. Still silent.
"W-What’s going on? Where am I?" he asked, dazed.
The Tower Manager didn’t answer.
Instead, she walked closer.
Each step slow, each movement like a demonic dance disguised as divine intent.
Her legs were long and pale—flawless, as if sculpted from holy milk by a divine algorithm.
The black dress wrapped around her like a self-aware sin. Tight. Smooth. Slick.
Her chest was exposed up to the collarbone—like the world itself wasn’t worthy to hide her upper glory.
Her breasts were full, heavy, yet elegant. Displayed like white pudding—tempting and firm.
Nathan took a step back. "What are you—"