I prayed to a forgotten demon and he answered.

The office lights had started to dim, but he was still at his desk, mouse in one hand, coffee in the other, staring blankly at a spreadsheet that hadn’t moved in the last hour.

Overtime, again.

He glanced at the clock: 11:38 PM. The screen burned his eyes. His paycheck this month barely covered lunch, let alone rent. But still, he smiled. Because tomorrow, he’d be transferring to the main branch in Kurosaka City, a metropolis where dreams went to either die or get outsourced.

And he was going there.

 “New life, new job, new apartment,” he muttered with a dry chuckle. “And hopefully a chair that doesn’t scream when I sit.”

The next day came in a blur. Office goodbyes, the train ride, signing the lease at the new place.

It was a small corporate-rented apartment at the edge of the city—grey concrete building, third floor, and a faint, unshakable smell of wet plaster. But it was his.

He dropped his bags, admired the dent in the wall from a previous tenant, and grinned. It was a fresh start.

By evening, he met a senior from his new office, Kameda-san—a tired-looking man with kind eyes and a smoker's cough. Over cheap beer and grilled chicken skewers at a nearby izakaya, they bonded over Excel sheets, salary cuts, and upper management incompetence.

But then the conversation twisted.
 “Wait—what apartment number did they give you?” Kameda asked, mid-chew.

 “303,” the MC said, mouth full.

Kameda paused. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You should ask for a different one.”

 “…Why?”

 “That place has a weird history. Rumors, nothing official. Tenants complaining about voices, power fluctuations, pets going missing. One guy apparently vanished.”

 “Wait—vanished?”

 “Forget it. Probably urban nonsense. Just… maybe talk to HR tomorrow.”

The Walk Back

The streets were dead quiet when he walked home around 1:15 AM. The kind of quiet that pressed into your ears. Even his footsteps felt disrespectful.

The one streetlamp in front of his building flickered. It blinked twice, stuttered to life, then dimmed again like it had forgotten how to exist.

 “Freaking corporate budget,” he mumbled. “Let’s hope the walls don’t breathe too.”

Inside, the apartment was dim and silent, but as he walked past the short hallway, he noticed something strange:Light was leaking from the storage room door.

That was odd.

He hadn’t even opened it yet.
He stepped closer. There was a deep, guttural murmur coming from inside—a low, ancient rhythm that scratched at the edge of language.

He hesitated. Then whispered to himself:

 “If a ghost with no physical body can beat a seasoned corporate overworking-underpaid beast, then even God can’t beat such a ghost.”

And with that, he opened the door.
The room was small. Dusty. Two old wooden cupboards stood against the back wall. The air was stale like no one had been here for years.

He stepped inside slowly.

The first cupboard creaked open—empty.

The second—held a small, palm-sized statue, placed carefully in the middle of the shelf. Its face was worn and weathered, like time itself had tried to erase it. Below it sat a thin bed of ash, probably from incense long since burned out.

He stared at it, sweat trickling down his neck.

Then sighed.

 “So it’s just some forgotten altar from the last tenant. Murmurs? Probably air and hangover. Light? Maybe I left it on.”

He got on his knees, clasped his hands, and bowed slightly.

 “I don’t know who you are, but... I’d like a better life. Please. New start, no curses attached. Thanks.”

He even lit an incense stick and gently placed it in the ash.

Satisfied, he turned off the hallway lights, left the storage room lamp on—just in case—and went to bed.

The room was cold when he woke up. 3:06 AM, his phone read.

His throat was dry. He shuffled out of bed and got some water.

As he turned back toward his room, something made him stop.

The light from the storage room still spilled out. But now, there was a long, stretched shadow on the floor.

A figure—tall, misshapen—was standing inside.

He froze.

His eyes darted to the bedroom. He moved slowly, trying not to breathe too loud, and stepped back, step by step.
He reached the bedroom, grabbed his keys from the nightstand—and turned.

Right into it.

It towered above him—a crooked, blackened thing with long arms, jointless fingers, and a face like it was carved by someone who hated symmetry.

Its hollow eyes bled shadows. Its grin cracked its face.

The MC couldn’t scream. He couldn’t even think.

The creature raised a hand, and the world moved too fast—its hand was already around his neck.

It lifted him, effortlessly. His body dangled like a ragdoll, legs kicking, eyes wide.

"Your wish is granted"the voice rasped, like stone dragged across bone.

The last thing he saw was the incense stick—still burning, now warped and curling.

And then—nothing.

Somewhere Else

He gasped awake—cold air filled his lungs like knives. He was on grass. Under a red sky, with two moons overhead.

Birds with too many wings flew past. A tree in the distance moved, even though there was no wind.

He sat up.

“...Oh crap.”

A pause.

 “Did that demon seriously just send me to another world... because I made a half-assed wish over incense?”

He blinked.

 “...How the hell am I gonna expense this?”